Echoes of the Past
by Deb3
Summary: 24th in the Fearful Symmetry series. A serial killer is recreating famous old unsolved cases, while Calleigh's mother is creating havoc. Which problem will be solved first?
1. Chapter 1

Title: Echoes of the Past

Rating: T

Disclaimer: H and C aren't mine. If they were, I'd still be watching. Rosalind and obvious others are mine. I'm making no money from this story.

Series: This is the 24th in the Fearful Symmetry series. Fearful Symmetry, Can't Fight This Feeling, Gold Medals, Surprises, Honeymoon, Blackout, the Hopes and Fears, Anniversary, Framed, Sight for Sore Eyes, Trials and Tribbulations, Premonition, Do No Harm, the CSI Who Loved Me, Complications, Yet to Be, More Deadly, Photo Finish, the Caine Mutiny, Calleighella, Swan Song, Betrayal, and Morning.

Reminder: This series is based on the original version of Calleigh's background, which CBS created, then decided on a whim to totally change. They made it. I'm sticking to it.

(H/C)

"History repeats itself. That's one of the things wrong with history."

Clarence Darrow, famous defense attorney

(H/C)

The killer stepped back carefully for perspective, two steps, no more, no less. Precision was important. Details were important. He liked to think of himself as an artist, carefully adding each layer, building the whole for the world to admire. Some great talents worked in paints and clay; he worked in lives. He studied his latest canvas, looking for anything lacking.

Beneath a tree, the bodies of a man and a woman lay side by side, face up. The man's right arm was stretched out, and the woman's head rested on it. The woman's face and head were covered by a brown scarf. The killer nodded once and stepped forward. He took the man's glasses from his pocket and carefully placed them on the body, pushing them to the bridge of the nose. He gave one final check of the glasses, making sure they were secured around each ear, then carefully placed a hat over the man's face. He stepped back again for one more inspection. Satisfied, he returned to his nearby car for a briefcase and took out several notes. These he scattered like confetti around the bodies, some actually landing on the couple. His final touch was a card, which he propped up carefully in the grass at the man's feet, arranging it so that it stood at the perfect angle to be read. His signature. He wanted full credit for his work.

Finally, he stepped back again, two steps beyond their feet. Was there anything else? No. It was perfect, one of the best he had ever created. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly in a thin smile that never reached his cold, metallic eyes. It was a masterpiece.

(H/C)

Calleigh was better known for her action and enthusiasm than her stillness, but at the moment, she was motionless. She stood in her kitchen looking at the closed cabinets with an unfocused softness to her eyes. All of her attention was behind her. Sounds drifted into the living room through the open glass doors from the deck. Gentle conversation. Horatio's velour tones giving her an auditory massage at a distance. Rosalind's occasional higher-pitched comments, not as irrelevant to the topics as one might have expected of a 2-year-old. The other couple. The gentle lullaby of the ocean underlying everything. Relatives enjoying each other's company. Perfect harmony. Calleigh was not lost in contrast with the past but in sudden, unspeakable gratitude for the present.

"Hey, need any help in here?"

She turned with a smile. "Not really. I was just . . ."

"Thinking. I could tell." Becky smiled at her. "Penny for your thoughts."

Calleigh returned the smile. "They're worth a lot more."

Her new sister-in-law nodded. "You still get caught up in the wonder of it all, don't you? I hope Peter and I are still like that in a few years."

"I'm sure you will be." Calleigh almost hadn't recognized her brother. The change in him since the wedding two months ago was so staggering that the only resemblance to the old was physical, and even that was limited. "I've never seen Peter look so happy in my life."

"Me, either. It took him long enough to come around, though. I'd been waiting for him for over a year before he finally started to open up."

"I beat you," Calleigh noted. "It was over two years before Horatio started to let me in."

Becky gave her a conspiratorial grin. "They should've listened to us earlier." She looked past Calleigh to the counter. "Not that I mind talking, but the men will send in another search party in a minute."

"Right." Calleigh instantly settled into brisk efficiency, taking out a platter. Becky helped her arrange three different varieties of cookies on it, and they headed out together to the deck.

Horatio saluted Calleigh with his lemonade glass as they emerged. "We were beginning to get worried." Nothing about him looked in the least worried. He was lounging in a deck chair wearing a set of shorts and a T-shirt, and his long, lean body was perfectly at ease. Rosalind was sitting on his lap, but she hopped off and scampered over to Calleigh as her mother emerged from the house.

"Let me help." The short arms reached up for the platter, and Calleigh let her hold one end of it, keeping a firm grip herself to prevent disaster. Together, mother and daughter crab-stepped to the table with the platter between them and carefully set it down.

"Dessert is served," Calleigh announced with a flourish. "The end to a perfect family barbecue."

Becky had sat back down in the chair next to Peter, and they both unconsciously slid the chairs a few inches closer. Horatio's eyes met Calleigh's, and they were sparkling with meaning, but neither of them commented. Horatio was enjoying getting to know the new, married version of Peter as much as she was. Peter took a cookie, bit off half, and gave the other half to his wife.

Rosalind grabbed a double handful from the platter, and Calleigh was about to tell her not to be greedy when she realized the purpose. Rosalind trotted back to her father. "Here you are."

Horatio took them from her. "Thank you, Angel. But I can't eat all of these. Why don't you keep a few of them?"

Rosalind actually hesitated, then finally took one back. She settled again on his lap and began munching, and Calleigh sat down next to Horatio.

Peter nodded at Rosalind. "She's amazing."

"We know," Horatio and Calleigh replied in perfect unison, then laughed at each other.

"What time are you leaving in the morning?" Calleigh asked.

"Around 10:00. That should give us time to check in. Our ship leaves at noon." Peter and Becky smiled at each other, anticipating their second honeymoon. They had had a first honeymoon, a weekend getaway just after the wedding, but the week-long cruise was a sort of official one. They had come down two days early to spend some time with the Caines.

Becky took another cookie and divided it. "Where did you go on your honeymoon, Calleigh?"

"Niagara Falls." She and Horatio smiled at each other, reminiscing. "And I got kidnapped. Hope yours goes a little more smoothly."

Peter's arm tightened around his bride. "Just let them try."

Calleigh grinned. "Horatio probably will have to go on into work first thing in the morning, but Rosalind and I will see you off."

Horatio looked down. "It's not that I wouldn't like to, but I've been out of the lab all weekend. Who knows what's happened?"

"Nothing important enough to call you, and they would have if they needed to," Calleigh pointed out. She gave him a smile of perfect understanding. "It's okay, Horatio. You've been relaxing a whole weekend for once. Rosalind and I can do the honors tomorrow."

Horatio put one hand on his daughter's arm. "Make sure you see the ship, Rosalind, and you can describe it for me so I won't miss anything."

She perked up with 2-year-old responsibility. "Okay."

Becky settled back against her husband's arm. "It has been a wonderful weekend. So peaceful. To listen to Peter, you two lead pretty exciting lives most of the time."

Horatio leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping a bit in sincerity. "Blame the criminals, not us. I'm glad nothing disrupted this weekend, though. We don't get many chances to see each other."

"We'll have to get more from now on," Becky said firmly, and Calleigh nodded.

The doorbell rang.

"You spoke too soon, Horatio," Calleigh said. It looked like the weekend was going to be disrupted after all.

Horatio was already getting to his feet, shifting Rosalind to her mother's lap. "Don't get up, Cal. Can't be work; they would have called. Probably some salesman. I'll get rid of him." He headed into the house, and Calleigh, Peter, and Becky all stayed in their chairs but followed him with their eyes as he crossed the living room to the front door.

One second after it was opened, they had all hit their feet, including Rosalind.

Jean bustled in. "Hello, Horatio. How's everything? Where's Rosalind? Where's Calleigh?"

Rosalind looked longingly toward the beach. She had not met her grandmother many times, but she certainly remembered her. Calleigh caught her daughter's hand, although she briefly considered running away along with her. No, that would leave poor Horatio to be the martyr. Peter and Becky both fought a similar temptation, and then they all gave a mutual sigh, including Rosalind, and headed inside.

Horatio had closed the door, resisting the urge to go through it first. Jean hadn't yet run out of breath in her waterfall of questions when she spotted the others. "Calleigh, Rosalind. How are you? Peter?" She stared at her son, obviously having a bit of difficulty recognizing him herself. "What are you doing here? And, um, . . ." Her voice ran down as she scrambled for Becky's name.

"Becky," she supplied.

"Oh, yes, Betty, that's right. Of course, I remember from the wedding." She turned away from Peter and Becky, dismissing them, and captured Rosalind in a painfully tight hug. "Rosalind! How's my little baby?"

"Down!" Rosalind insisted.

Jean gave her granddaughter another squeeze, still holding her far above the floor. "Isn't she adorable?"

Horatio reached around her, and Rosalind scrambled from Jean's arms into his like a monkey. Once there, she forgot all about wanting down and flattened herself against her father, only her face still turned to watch events. "Jean, nice to see you," he lied smoothly. "We weren't expecting you. You should have let us know."

"I wanted to make it a surprise," Jean insisted. "What are you doing here, Peter? Don't you and Betty live in New Jersey?"

"Her name is Becky, and it's Virginia." Peter was tensing up again, looking more like his old self. "We're on vacation, and we stopped by to see Horatio and Calleigh for a few days before we leave on a cruise."

"And they called us first," Calleigh muttered, almost inaudibly.

"A cruise, how nice. Your father and I once took a cruise. I remember . . ." Off she went into a detailed fantasy as Calleigh and Peter exchanged a look. Their mother had never been on a cruise in her life and certainly not with their father.

Horatio cut smoothly across her flight of fancy, somehow making it a courteous interruption. "Jean, how long are you visiting Miami?"

She turned to face him, instantly diverted. "Oh, I'm not visiting, Horatio. That's the wonderful surprise I have for you." She reached out to hug both him and Rosalind, not even looking at Calleigh. "I've decided to move to Miami!"


	2. Chapter 2

"First, there is the rocket-boosted mother-in-law…. queen of the melodrama when her acts of self-sacrifice and martyrdom go unnoticed and unrewarded. Her banner is the tear-stained hanky. She is as phony as a colic cure, transparent as a soap bubble. And as harmless as a barracuda. But she is really more wretched than wicked and needs more help than she can give."

Abigail Van Buren (Dear Abby)

(H/C)

Calleigh carefully eased the bedroom door shut and tiptoed the first few feet down the hall, even though it wasn't really required. As she rejoined the assembly in the living room, all eyes met hers with the crucial question.

"She's asleep."

Everyone relaxed simultaneously, tension starting to dissipate, then abruptly reforming. Jean's temporary absence was appreciated, but the bigger problem of her presence remained. Calleigh sat down on the couch next to Horatio. Peter and Becky were in the recliner – both in the same one, drawing reassurance from each other.

Horatio smoothly opened the emergency family conference with his organized authority, echoing lab briefings at CSI. "The way I see it, moving ourselves isn't going to accomplish anything. She'd follow us. I think she's just getting lonely. Calleigh?"

Calleigh sighed. "You're right. We can't run away from her. Besides, it isn't really her fault she's the way she is. What I'm most worried about is Rosalind."

Horatio nodded. "Absolutely. We will find some way to protect her to some extent, Cal. I'm just not sure what it is yet. We won't let Jean smother her childhood."

Peter cleared his throat guiltily. "When I was a kid, we tried running away. Even before I did it permanently. Ran from both of them into the woods. It's not really a solution, though."

"More a survival tactic," Calleigh remembered. "Rosalind isn't going to be put through that."

"Why do you think she came now?" Becky asked. They all looked at her, momentarily startled at the question. "It's been a few years since your father died. Her friends, such as they are, are in Darnell. I know you said she was lonely, Horatio, and I'm sure you're right, but has there ever been any time she hasn't been?"

Calleigh shook her head slowly. "No. Not even when Dad was alive."

"It's an excellent question," Horatio said. "Do you know anyone in Darnell, Calleigh? Anyone who might give you some local perspective? If there is a problem that's why she left, maybe we could solve that one."

"Probably easier than solving this one," Calleigh said.

Peter looked directly at his sister. "Calleigh, we do have to leave tomorrow morning. I'm sorry. I'm not just running away and dumping it all on you again."

"I know," she assured him. "It's your honeymoon. Believe me, if Mother had showed up on my honeymoon, Horatio and I would have jumped off the falls. Go on and enjoy yourselves." He still looked doubtful. "It's okay, Peter. The past is past. I'm not judging you by it now."

Becky gave her sister-in-law a smile as her hand tightened over her husband's. "We'll be back in a week, and we'll help you then, if nothing has been solved."

"Maybe it will be," Calleigh said. "I'll call a few old friends tomorrow; it's too late tonight. And Horatio is on the case. Miami's finest."

As she had expected, Horatio instantly ducked away from praise to center back on the problem. "There's got to be some way to make Jean happy while keeping her out of Rosalind's hair, at least most of the time." He looked through the glass doors, seeing and not seeing the countless stars.

Becky spoke softly. "If she's always been lonely, I'm sure she's never really been happy."

"Too late to solve that one," Calleigh said. "She doesn't even live in reality."

They sat there in silence, all looking for the answer, no one seeing it. Finally, Becky, the most practical of the foursome, spoke. "We're not going to do anything more tonight other than wear ourselves out for tomorrow. Jean's in there sleeping. You'll need a good night's sleep to deal with her."

Calleigh glanced at her watch. It was approaching 1:30. Jean's bubbling enthusiasm at her move and seeing the family had lasted for hours after her arrival, so they hadn't really had a chance to start talking until late. "You're right, I guess. We do have to work tomorrow, too." She nudged Horatio, who was still trying to analyze the stars and find the solution in them. "Hey, Handsome. We'd just decided we can't solve it tonight, so stop trying." He looked at her, then at the clock, then sighed.

Peter stood up. "Mother's in your room. Do you want the guest room tonight?"

"No, you're the guests. We'll find somewhere else to sleep," Horatio stated.

"Like Alaska," Calleigh added.

Peter came across to his sister. "I'm not abandoning you in this," he repeated.

Calleigh gave him a hug. "I know. Becky, keep telling him I know, okay?"

"Sure." She took her husband by the arm. "Let's get to bed, Peter. Good night, Calleigh. Good night, Horatio." They headed down the hall, leaving Horatio and Calleigh on the couch, looking at each other.

"I'm sorry," they said in unison.

"What are you sorry for?" Calleigh asked. "It's my mother who's the problem. Horatio, if you want a divorce, I'd understand." She was only half joking.

He captured her arms, turning her to face him so their eyes could meet. "First, I don't want one. You didn't inflict your family on me. I inflicted them on myself, voluntarily, knowing what I was getting into. And I'd do it again tonight, even with your mother moving to Miami. Marrying you was easily the best deal I've ever made in my life." She pulled him against her, melting into his kiss, more reassurance than passion this time.

"What's second?" she asked a minute later.

"What?"

"You said that first, you didn't want a divorce. What's second?"

He sighed. "I don't think it would accomplish anything. I think I'd wind up getting custody of her."

Calleigh laughed. "You're probably right, Horatio. She's certainly your devoted fan. Keeps telling me I'm not good enough for you."

"She's wrong." He kissed her again. "So in a way, it's me who is inflicting your family on you."

"I'll forgive you." Calleigh buried her face in his strong chest. "We'll manage, Horatio. But Rosalind. . . " Her voice trailed off.

Horatio's muscles tensed up. "We will protect Rosalind from this. Somehow. Some way."

"Right. But how?"

They sat there holding each other for another half hour, thinking fiercely, but no brainstorm struck. Finally, Calleigh stood up. "Horatio, we really do need to get some rest. We'll need it tomorrow – I mean today."

"I suppose." He stood up himself. "Do we want the couch or the floor?" They eyed the couch, considering the logistics of two people, even two happily married people, sleeping there all night and sighed in unison.

"I'll get us a few blankets to make a mattress." Calleigh quietly crept into the bedroom and retrieved them from the closet. Jean was snoring like a buzz saw and never stirred. Calleigh unfolded the covers on the living room floor, making the most comfortable nest for them she could. When she came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Horatio was already lying down but still staring through the door at the stars as if mesmerized. Calleigh put herself between him and the glass, lying down and spooning her body against his, and he wrapped his arms around her.

"The answer is out there somewhere, Cal," he insisted. "I'll find it for you and Rosalind."

"Find it tomorrow, Horatio." She leaned into him, but she was having trouble settling down herself. "Good night, Handsome."

"Good night, Beautiful."

They closed their eyes, but their minds continued full speed long into the night, like cars on a racetrack, lap after lap, going nowhere fast.

(H/C)

It was Rosalind who woke them, whimpering slightly. Not that she was being noisy, but the parental ears were attuned. Calleigh and Horatio erupted in unison from the nest of blankets and hurried down the hall.

Jean had Rosalind picked up and stuffed awkwardly under one arm while she opened drawers with the other hand, pulling out clothes and discarding them just as fast. Rosalind's eyes met her parents' with the look of a prisoner getting a reprieve. "Morning!" she said.

"Good morning, Angel." Calleigh took her daughter. "Good morning, Mother."

"Good morning," Jean chirped cheerfully. "Good morning, Horatio."

"Good morning."

"I was just helping out getting her ready for the day. First thing I'll do, I think, is go shopping. These clothes are all wrong. Surely we can find something more pretty for a little treasure." Calleigh had disappeared, taking Rosalind into the bathroom, leaving Horatio temporarily alone with the situation.

"You really don't have to do that, Jean. She has plenty of clothes, and she helped the two of us pick these out. She doesn't like doll clothes with too many frills and lace."

"But she's a girl, Horatio. Little girls ought to look like little belles, just waiting to grow up and dance and have beaus." Jean started humming the theme from Gone With the Wind to herself. "Besides, I want to buy her things. Spending time with my family. This is going to be so wonderful, having everybody together in Miami."

Peter and Becky, having just come out of the guest room, hesitated in the door to the nursery, with Peter looking like he couldn't decide whether to be relieved or offended at being left out of Jean's definition of everybody. Becky gave Horatio a sympathetic smile, mouthed "we'll start breakfast," and pulled her husband down the hall. Jean prattled on happily, never having even noticed them.

"Oh, Horatio, isn't this going to be so much fun?" Fortunately, she wasn't really expecting an answer. "Maybe Rosalind could come shopping with me today."

"No," Horatio said, a bit sharply. Jean looked wounded, and he backed down the tone instantly. "She's got all sorts of friends in daycare and has her own schedule. We don't want to disrupt it too much."

"Oh, right, a schedule is important," Jean conceded. "I'll just surprise her, then. I'll surprise all of you."

"Speaking of schedules," Calleigh said from the door, "we'd better be getting ready. Horatio and I have to be at work, and Peter and Becky have to get to the dock early to check in, so they'll be leaving then, too." Effortlessly, she added two hours to Peter and Becky's cushion time to make the ship.

"Oh, right, of course." Jean hurried down the hall with Horatio and Calleigh following her. "I don't want to disrupt your schedules. We'll have plenty of time to see each other from now on." She hesitated in the living room, looking at the blankets on the floor. "Did you have to sleep there, Horatio?"

"We both slept there," Horatio emphasized.

"But you shouldn't have to sleep on the floor in your own house. Why didn't you make Peter and Betty give you the guest bed? So inconsiderate of them to make you sleep on the floor. And Calleigh, you ought to fold up those blankets. You're getting careless in your housekeeping."

"Breakfast is ready," Becky stated, distracting Calleigh from murder. They settled around the table and started eating. Becky was a good cook, but the food tasted like sawdust to five of the six people present.

Jean wolfed down the meal. "Isn't this wonderful?" she enthused again. "We're going to be a family."

The others at the table, including Rosalind, endured the meal in silence.

(H/C)

Two blocks down the road and around the first corner, the Hummer pulled to the curb with Calleigh's Jeep behind it. A quick reshuffling took place, with Rosalind being transferred from the Hummer to the Jeep and Calleigh climbing in, too. If Jean had realized that only Horatio was going to work at the moment and that everybody else, including Rosalind, was going to the docks, she would have insisted on coming along, to be with Rosalind, not to see Peter and Becky off. Once the Jeep was fully loaded, Horatio leaned in through the window to give Calleigh a quick kiss and blew one to Rosalind. "Have fun, Angel. Be sure to watch the ship for me, so you can describe it to me tonight."

"I will," she said, but the cheerfulness was strained.

Peter reached out the window to shake Horatio's hand. "We will be back in a week, Horatio. We'll help you with this."

"Hopefully you won't have to," Calleigh insisted. "We'll solve the problem first."

"Unfortunately, it's not as simple as a case," Horatio said. "Speaking of which, I'd better get on the job before the crooks do." He gave Peter and Becky a half smile. "Enjoy your honeymoon. We who are about to die salute you." He gave the old greeting of the Roman gladiators a joking lilt, but nobody laughed. He kissed Calleigh quickly again, then headed for the Hummer and drove off in the direction of CSI.

Calleigh sighed and turned the Jeep on. "We'd better hurry to the docks. We've only got four hours to make it."

Rosalind straightened up in her car seat. "See more ships for Dada, then."

They all laughed at that, the tension broken somewhat, and Calleigh put the car in gear, for once happy to be heading away from her house.

(H/C)

Horatio entered CSI to find Speed and Eric replenishing their field kits. "Gentlemen, good morning. Do we have a case?"

"Double murder," Speed said. "And this looks like a strange one, H."

"What's strange about it?"

"According to one of the reporting officers, it was committed in 1922."


	3. Chapter 3

"The fictional murder mystery, the typical "whodunit," ordinarily has for its lure a bizarre or gruesome crime involving persons of importance; clues, more or less obscure; a half-dozen equally likely suspects; and a superlative sleuth who, through means devious but certain, ultimately brings the criminal to stern and unflinching justice. The Hall-Mills case, a true crime story, had all these ingredients save one: There was no superlative sleuth to ferret out the criminal, so no one paid the penalty for the crime. Except as a reader of the record may reach a conclusion which satisfies him, the Hall-Mills case remains to this day an unsolved mystery."

Francis Busch, "The Hall-Mills Case," in Crimes That Shocked America. This is the paragraph that my muse seized when she first offered me the story seed for Echoes.

Additional Story Disclaimer: The Hall-Mills case is an actual case, as will be certain others in this story. All are notorious enough that I consider them to be in the public domain for fic use. Details of those cases are accurate as far as I am able to verify.

(H/C)

The Hummer pulled up the rough road in the Everglades and came to a halt next to the crime scene tape. Horatio, Speed, and Eric exited, and as the two younger men went to the back of the vehicle for their field kits, Horatio paused, sunglasses on, hands on hips, and gave the overall scene one of those sweeping glances that, like an eagle, caught both the large picture and details simultaneously. He frowned slightly as one of those details registered, and he went forward to meet Tripp halfway.

"Frank, who's that?" He nodded toward the officer standing with his back to them in rapt attention as he studied the bodies.

"Dawson. Recent transfer. Got a good record, seems reliable enough. He was the first responder sent to the 911 call."

"He seems a bit more than professionally interested."

Tripp hid his smile behind his stoic front. For Horatio to pick up on that having only seen the man's back and not spoken to him yet was quite a feat of observation. "Oh, he's some sort of history buff. Says this is an exact duplication of a famous case in 1922."

One red eyebrow inched skyward slightly. "An exact duplication?"

"He says. I'd take his word on it. Easy enough for you to look up, anyway."

"Easy enough for a killer to look up, too. But why recreate an old murder? Less trouble to be original. Let's have a talk with Officer Dawson, shall we?" Horatio moved on past Tripp with smooth speed, trailed by the two younger CSIs. "Dawson?"

Dawson straightened even more as Horatio came up beside him. Horatio might not have known Dawson, but Dawson had clearly heard of Horatio. "Yes, sir, Lieutenant Caine?"

"You said this is an exact duplication of the old case?" Horatio studied the two bodies, so carefully posed.

"Yes, sir. The Hall-Mills case, 1922. He was a minister, and she was a choir member at his church. They were having an affair."

"Guess he really knew his church members," Speed cracked. "In both senses of the word."

Dawson gave him an irritated look. "They were found murdered underneath a crabapple tree. They were arranged exactly like these two, even including the hat and the letters. They were love letters, by the way, mostly by her to him, a few the other way around. His visiting card was propped up in the grass at his feet, exactly like this."

"Didn't they know to burn illicit love letters in 1922?" Eric asked.

Speed shook his head. "Not too smart. Bet those made juicy reading in court."

"Gentlemen." Horatio's tone cut across the levity, and both of the younger men straightened up guiltily. "We are dealing with a case right now, and a murderer right now. The old case is clearly relevant, but personal remarks about the people in it are a waste of valuable time at this stage." He studied the scene again. "There's no way this isn't intentional."

Dawson nodded vigorously. "He's copying the old case as well as he could. The only thing wrong I've spotted is that this isn't a crabapple tree. Guess he couldn't find one deserted enough."

"And that case is still unsolved?"

"Yes. Four people were tried for it, none convicted. The state ran out of funds and dropped it."

Horatio knelt, giving the card in the grass a closer look. "There should be a print on that, if he's following the original case," Dawson offered.

"Why wasn't there a conviction with a print?" Speed asked.

"Oh, the evidence was all mishandled. The crime happened practically on a county line, and the two counties were fighting over who had to investigate it and foot the bill. Things were lost. The rector's glasses were broken while in evidence. The card actually wound up in the hands of a newspaper office and wasn't returned to the police until almost four years after the murder, which was how long it took them to get the trial together."

Horatio stood and pulled his sunglasses off, giving the crime scene one more full, unshielded view. "This time, it won't be mishandled. Go carefully, gentleman, and don't assume things just because of the pattern from 1922. Either these two really were in an affair and their murderer, who knew them both, just happened to be a history buff, or . . ."

"Or what, H?" Eric asked.

Horatio put his sunglasses back on. "Or we have a historical serial killer."

(H/C)

Calleigh lifted Rosalind for a better view as the ship pulled out and began its stately, dignified journey toward the open ocean. Peter and Becky were on the deck waving at them, and Rosalind waved back. "Big ship," she said again.

"Very big ship," Calleigh agreed. "Maybe someday, Angel, we can go on a cruise on one when you're a little older."

Rosalind's smile was like sunlight, and several others in the crowd gathered at the port looked away from the ship for a minute to the golden-haired child. She was oblivious to them. "Someday," she sang. "With Dada." His name on her lips, as so often, was music.

"Absolutely." Calleigh smiled herself at the thought.

Rosalind's smile faded into stubbornness. "Without Gramma."

"Again, absolutely. Or maybe we could send her on a cruise and us stay home. Maybe a cruise around the world." Calleigh turned toward the parking lot. "We'd better get going, Rosalind. I do have to get to work. You're going to daycare now."

"I wanna walk," she insisted. Calleigh put her down and grasped her hand tightly as they wound through the press of humanity. It seemed that as many people had come to see the ship off as had boarded it. Rosalind pressed closely to her side. As they reached the Jeep and Calleigh was unlocking it, Rosalind spoke up uncertainly. "Mama?"

"What is it, Angel?"

"Why is Gramma . . ."

"Why is she coming to live here? I don't know, Angel. We can't stop her, but we'll work out something. You won't have to deal with her all the time. I promise."

"No, why is Gramma . . ." Rosalind trailed off again, lacking a sufficient word for it. It didn't matter, as Calleigh this time realized what she was asking.

"You mean why is she the way she is?" Rosalind nodded. Calleigh realized with fleeting guiltiness that she had never in her life asked the question her 2-year-old daughter had just come up with. She had been frustrated, maddened, and annoyed by her mother over the years, but she had never really tried to understand her. Had Jean been born that way, or was there some hidden reason that had derailed her perceptions years ago? "I'm not sure, Angel. That's a good question, but I don't always have the answers." She picked Rosalind up and tucked her into her car seat.

Rosalind smiled at her mother. "That's okay. Dada has answers." She sat back confidently, looking forward to asking Horatio later.

Calleigh returned the smile, suddenly confident herself. "If he doesn't, he'll find them. It's going to be all right, Rosalind." She leaned forward to give her daughter a quick kiss, then closed the door and hurried around to the driver's side, and her smile of anticipation at seeing Horatio was a larger replica of Rosalind's.

(H/C)

"Hey." Horatio looked up from the computer in his office as Calleigh breezed in.

"Hey. How was the ship?"

"I wouldn't want to spoil Rosalind's description for you," she said sassily. "She did ask one question that made me think, though. Why is Mother the way she is?"

Horatio stopped to consider it, the head tilting. "Rosalind asked that?"

"Yes. She puts me to shame sometimes. I've never asked that, not in all these years."

Horatio reached across the desk, and her hand met his halfway. "She didn't give you much chance to, Calleigh. To come up with the question requires a bit of distance to analyze the whole picture, and you didn't have any growing up. Still, that's amazingly perceptive for a 2-year-old."

Calleigh squeezed his hand. "She reminds me of somebody else that way."

Horatio raised an eyebrow. "Who might that be?" he said jokingly.

"Well, I'll give you a hint. He's in this room."

Speed came through the open door at that second. "H, I've got the . . ." He stopped as they both burst out laughing. "What's funny?"

"Never mind," Horatio said.

Calleigh turned in the chair to study Speed like a piece of evidence. "You know, Tim, you don't remind me of Rosalind at all."

"What?"

Horatio abruptly snapped back to business. "What were you going to say, Speed?"

"I just got back with the first batch of evidence. I'm starting on the card first, since Dawson thinks it should have fingerprints. If the killer was being that accurate, anyway."

"Is Eric still at the scene?"

"Right, and Alexx got there, too. It took a while longer for her to get down to them because he was photographing everything. The scene was so complicated."

"Indeed it was. We'll uncomplicate it. Keep me posted, Speed."

"You got it, H."

Calleigh had let go of Horatio's hand long since. Like him, she was once again totally professional. "New case?"

"Really strange one. Apparently, a killer decided to recreate a famous murder that occurred in 1922." He glanced back at his computer screen. "I've just been researching the old case. The level of detail this killer used is exceeded only by the level of the incompetence in the original investigation. You wouldn't believe how that evidence was treated. Anyway, I wanted to confirm Dawson's impression and facts. It checks out. This couldn't possibly be coincidence. The killer had this 1922 case in mind."

"Who's Dawson?"

"A new officer, new to Miami, anyway. He's a history buff. I'm going to check him out, too, but he's probably just a fan of true crime cases, like he says. A lot of people enjoy reading them. He couldn't possibly have arranged to be responding officer at that scene; he just happened to be the one dispatched after the 911 call. Dispatch could have picked several others. He was also too obviously interested to be the killer, too. No subtlety. I can't imagine a killer acting so much like a kid in a candy shop in front of investigators at his own crime scene."

"Who found the body?"

"A man in the Glades. Made an anonymous 911 call reporting the body and hung up. He said he was hunting illegally and couldn't stick around."

"Could be true."

"Quite possibly. Alexx was delayed, so I don't have full details yet, but they had obviously been dead quite a while. Stone cold. No killer would have hung around all that time. He probably just tripped across them."

"Unless the killer was upset that they hadn't been found yet."

"Could be," Horatio conceded. "There was a delay in finding the original bodies, also because they were in a remote location, so that could be scripted. Another thing we're checking for is those bodies had been there a few days, I'd say. In the Glades, Cal," he prompted.

The light dawned. "Why weren't they eaten? Or were they?"

"Not even nibbled. Eric's going to check the surrounding area for some sort of repellant. I think the killer put a wide circle of something around them, and that tells us something about him. Not only the meticulous detail here, but he didn't want it disturbed before people saw. He wanted his detail work to be admired." Horatio turned off the computer and stood up. "I'm hoping this is personal, but I'm afraid it's not. If there is a serial killer out there who has decided to recreate old unsolved cases, we need to stop him as quickly as possible."

Calleigh shuddered. "Before he gets down to the Zodiac or Jack the Ripper."

"Precisely." Horatio walked around the desk to her side. "Let's go, Cal. We have a killer to catch." They left the office side by side, but Rosalind's question was still tickling the backs of their minds.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for all the feedback, people! Two quick notes:

First, I know Rosalind isn't the typical 2-year-old, and it is very remarkable for her to ask that question. However, it isn't impossible. I have hard evidence from RL to back up the accomplishments of Rosalind. Isn't she something, though? I've fallen in love with my own OC.

Second, just to give reverse feedback, everybody who has sent me ideas, guesses, and advice on where this story is going is on a wrong scent so far. Keep guessing, people. :)

Thanks again. Many more Rosalind moments, H/C moments, historical moments, and mother moments on the way.

(H/C)

"Whatever else can be said for the case made by the special prosecutor, he established the relationship between the Episcopal divine and his choir singer beyond all reasonable doubt."

Francis X. Busch, "The Hall-Mills Case," Crimes that Shocked America

(H/C)

"Listen to this one." Speed cleared his throat and paused dramatically for effect. "Dear, Dear, Tender Wonderheart of Mine: Have you felt the exalted mood I am in today? Darling, I have longed to talk, talk, talk with you while holding you in my arms. I am not wild or fierce today or possessive but calm, strong, exalted. Such an assurance. I feel like Tennyson's strong son of God. Immortal love. Dearie, dear heart, I want to hold you close, commune with you, hold you tight with my left arm and drag your dear firm face and body with my right arm and look deep down into those wonder eyes, hazel eyes . . . I want you and music. Let's meet at our road at 2:15."

Eric shook his head. "Why hasn't any girl I've ever known written to me like that?" he asked jokingly.

"We've written letters, but I can't imagine Breeze writing this stuff. Or saying it."

"Get this one." Eric picked up another from the evidence table. "Dear Darling Boy: I love you more when you love me as you did today – not so much physically but prayerfully, exalted, and you see, darling, the physical fits in and doesn't dominate – it was there just the same and not to be denied, never. Dearest, believe me, won't you? Never will I say you want my body rather than me – what I really am. I know that if you love me you will long and ache for my body."

"Hard at work, gentlemen?" Horatio's icy tone cut through the mood. Both of the younger CSIs jumped guiltily. "What can you tell me about those letters, aside from their literary value?"

"Fingerprints on them, but no match in AFIS," Speed reported. "No trace. Normal paper and ink. Modern, not from 1922. The visiting card at his feet had a beautiful set of prints. That one was staged. The prints on the notes weren't staged, but he wasn't being too careful, either. Like he was leaving us clues, if we could find them."

"Have you sent the notes for handwriting analysis yet?"

"Not yet, H. I was just about to."

"I suggest you do so." Speed gathered up the notes with alacrity and headed out the door at a faster pace than his usual amble. Horatio turned to Eric. "What do you have from the scene?"

"I'm still working on it, H. I was just . . . "

"Helping Speed?"

Eric looked down. "Sorry, H."

Horatio nodded, accepting the apology. "What have you got for me?"

"There was a repellant sprayed in a perimeter around the bodies. I've also got casts of tracks from the road – looked like an SUV. There were drag marks from there to the bodies, which he tried to brush out. There were also two sets of footprints, one size 8, one size 11."

"One could belong to our hunter who found the bodies – assuming he wasn't involved."

Eric nodded. "One of them just walked up once and then left, running. The other prints were all over the place except where they had been brushed out. That had to be the killer."

"Size 8 or 11?"

"Size 8."

"Not too big for a man," Horatio said. "Large people can have medium feet, but it's rare. Was there anything else that stood out to you?"

"There was a cartridge shell. I sent that down to Ballistics for Calleigh. I found a few hairs, and I'm still running those."

"Good job." Horatio's eyes went distant. "He's following the original case pretty closely. I think he's setting up a challenge for us, to see if we can solve now what couldn't be solved then." The blue fire sharpened into flame. "He picked the wrong department to challenge."

(H/C)

Calleigh entered the autopsy bay just as Alexx was finishing on the woman. "Hi, Alexx. Found anything yet?"

Alexx smiled at her, but her tone was serious. "This one is a real sicko. I haven't done the man yet because the woman's injuries looked worse, more for us to work from. She was shot three times in the head. Her throat was cut, left to right, all the way through to the spinal column. I'd say that was done from in front, so the killer would be right handed."

Calleigh frowned. "She was shot three times and her throat cut? That's overkill."

"The throat cutting wasn't to kill her, honey. It was to take souvenirs. The top of the windpipe, the larynx, and the tongue are missing. They weren't pulled out; they were cut out."

"I'll have to ask Horatio, but that could be just copying the original case from 1922."

"Okay, then, they're both sickos. The one in 1922 and this one."

"Did you get the bullets for me?"

Alexx held out a container. "Go get him, honey. You okay, by the way? You look a little tired today."

"I was up half the night, and then I slept on the floor. My mother turned up last night on our doorstep. She's moving to Miami."

Alexx looked at her with pure sympathy. "I'm sorry, honey. Maybe you can work something out."

"I hope so." Calleigh dragged her thoughts back to the job. "I'll get these bullets down to Ballistics. Might as well work on something where I can make a difference." Alexx's warm eyes followed her as she left, and it was several minutes before the ME turned her attention back to the body on the table.

(H/C)

Dawson was filling out a report at his desk when Horatio slid smoothly into the seat in front of him. "Dawson, may I have a minute?" The tone was polite, but it wasn't a request, and Dawson immediately put down the pen.

"Certainly, Lieutenant Caine."

"How long have you been in Miami, and where did you come from?" Horatio was deliberately blunt, watching for the other man's reaction.

Dawson gave a humorless smile. "I wondered how long it would take you to check into me. I moved to Miami two months ago. I came from Massachusetts originally, then moved to New York City, then Charlotte. I went through the academy in New York, then was on the force there for two years, on the force in Charlotte for three." He pulled out a notepad, writing as he talked. "These are my supervisors from both departments. You're welcome to talk to both of them."

Horatio smiled at him. "I will."

"I know. If I didn't know me, I'd suspect me, too. I'd at least have to rule myself out." Dawson sat back in his chair, his fingers hooked together on the desk in front of him. The hands weren't tense, though, Horatio noted. The clasp was easy and relaxed as he settled into what was obviously one of his favorite subjects. "My father was a police detective. He was always fascinated with unsolved cases, and once we kids were teenagers, he'd go over the details of them and ask for opinions. I always thought it was a challenge, looked forward to them. One thing, when you're speculating about, say, Jack the Ripper, at this stage, it's theoretical. No more victims can be hurt by your opinions, and nobody can quite be proven wrong. I'll admit, this morning, it was an abstract problem at first. Took me a little while to realize that they were actual people in this case."

"They were actual people in 1922, as well," Horatio pointed out.

Dawson nodded. "I know. It's just easier to forget when you read about it in a book instead of seeing it with your own eyes. I became a police officer so I could help actual people. Dad was quite devoted to his job. He never depersonalized anybody. I don't think he did even in the historical cases. He really was offended that justice hadn't been done for these people."

Horatio noted the past tense. "He's dead?"

For the first time, Dawson's fingers twitched reflexively. "Killed on the job six years ago."

"I'm sorry." The silence lengthened for a minute, and then Horatio turned the discussion back to the current case. "What do you think of this one?"

Dawson eagerly accepted the return to duty. "There's no question it's patterned after the original. Tripp is working on trying to identify the victims, going through missing person's reports and such. I think it's going to be crucial to find out if these two actually were having an affair, like in the original case."

Horatio nodded, having already traced that trail to its conclusion. "If they were, this could be revenge by someone who knew them who just happened to be a crime buff with a sick sense of humor. If they weren't and were just picked for availability, not situation, we've probably got a serial killer recreating old cases, with more to come."

"That's how I figure it. I'd even lean toward the second theory. This is a lot of effort for somebody to go to for simple revenge for an affair. We need to check whether the two bodies were similar build to the two 1922 victims. This man went so far toward recreating that scene. He might have picked them to look the part. I know the facts on the old case, but I don't have the pictures all in mind. I'll look it up tonight. I didn't know I'd be dealing with this case when I came on the job this morning."

Horatio leaned forward slightly, posture still straight but increasing the intensity. "Assume that we have a historical serial killer. I'd like you to look up famous unsolved cases and guess which ones might be next. If we can get proactive, we might have a better chance at saving future victims."

"There are so many, though," Dawson objected. "I'll go through my books tonight. I have Dad's whole library on true crime, but even if the perp sticks with notorious cases, there are several. We could probably rule out some. Like Jack the Ripper. That case would be awfully hard to recreate and not get caught. All murders in a very populous district in a large city, some discovered within minutes, some right out in the open. One of the most outstanding points about that case was Jack's incredible luck. You can learn and predict police beat schedules, even though they tried to adjust them, but there were plenty of other people around, too, even at night. Many historians think that Jack was interrupted and scared away on his first murder on the night of the double event by a cartman, and that's why he had to kill again that night, because he didn't get time to do everything he wanted the first time. I don't see any way for a killer to accurately reproduce that case in Miami and be true to the original without running a huge chance of getting caught. The Hall-Mills bodies were found in a remote area, and that gives the killer time to set it up carefully. The Zodiac worked in remote areas. The Wallace case from Liverpool is a classic, although opinion is split whether the husband was guilty and pretending to be caught in a trap or innocent and really caught in a trap. The murder was committed inside, though, with nobody but victim and perp there. I'd say we need cases that were either remote or inside private buildings, cases he could recreate without much chance of being interrupted. I'll work on it and get back to you."

"Thank you, Dawson." Horatio stood up, pocketing the note with the two previous supervisors. "And welcome to Miami." He gave him a crooked smile, turned, and left.

(H/C)

Calleigh straightened up from the microscope, sensing Horatio behind her. "Hey." He folded her against him.

"Hey. Have you come to any conclusions from the evidence?"

"Yes," she said. "I think you love me, and I think Mother is going to be a problem."

"Right on both counts. Brilliant deduction, as always." He kissed her. "Much as I'm impressed by your perception, though, I was talking about the case."

Calleigh released him, turning back to the microscope. "32 caliber revolver. Prints on the cartridge match the ones Speed found on the notes. All bullets were from the same gun, no match in the database. No powder marks or burns. They weren't shot at close range, more like ten feet or so. Alexx said TOD was about 48 hours before they were found."

"That's a bit long," Horatio noted. She shot him a question mark, and he continued. "The original case had the bodies found about 36 hours after the killings. That substantiates the innocent hunter finding the bodies theory." He glanced at his watch. "It's time to head home. We'll have to continue the investigation tomorrow." They both sighed at the prospect of heading home. "Do you want me to deal with your mother or picking up Rosalind?"

Calleigh considered. "Mother would be easier for you to take the edge off after all day alone, but Rosalind also wants to tell you about the ship, and she won't have much chance tonight with Mother around after she gets home. Why don't you pick up Rosalind, and you can talk to her on the way?"

Horatio gave her a sympathetic smile. "The sacrifices you make for motherhood."

"Just don't be too far behind me, Handsome. I'm timing you." She carefully filed the bullets. "Also, be forewarned, Rosalind is going to ask you why Mother is like she is."

He flinched. "Sure you don't want to pick her up? On the other hand, I'd far rather deal with Rosalind's questions than your mother's." He embraced her again, the kiss lingering, then finally pulled away. "See you at home."

(H/C)

Rosalind was waiting eagerly by the door of daycare. "Dada!" She attached herself to his leg as he came in, and he picked her up for a better hug.

"Hi, Angel. Did you have a good day?"

"Uh huh. Saw the ship."

Dana, bringing Rosalind's bag, smiled. "She wouldn't tell us about the ship. She said she had to tell you first."

"Let's get in the Hummer, Angel, and then I'm all ears." Horatio collected Rosalind's bag, then carried her out to the parking lot and buckled her into her car seat. "Okay, Rosalind."

Rosalind leaned forward to see him better as the Hummer backed out. "It was big. Big, big, big. White with blue. Like a bird. It was slow."

Horatio nodded. "Too big to move quickly. I'll bet it was pretty backing out, though."

Rosalind nodded. "And it beeped." At that point, she gave an amazingly accurate imitation of the ship's deep bass whistle. Horatio grinned. "Lots of people on it. They waved bye-bye."

"Did you wave back?"

"Uh huh. Can we take a ship, Dada?"

"Maybe someday for vacation, Angel. That sounds like fun."

Rosalind nodded, then went serious, an oddly adult expression on her innocent face. Horatio braced himself. "Dada, why is Gramma?" She left it as an open-ended question.

He turned to look directly at her since they were at a stoplight. "I don't know, Rosalind. There might not be an answer. Sometimes, people are just different. If there is an answer, I'll try to find it for you and Mama."

She considered, then smiled at him, like Calleigh's smile, a ray of sunshine that warmed his heart. "Okay. I love you."

He reached across to squeeze her hand. "I love you, too."

(H/C)

Calleigh heard the Hummer and opened the door eagerly, already feeling suffocated by her mother's presence. "Hi, Angel. How was your day?"

"Good." She hugged Calleigh, then, like a martyr, let herself be hugged by Jean. Horatio did likewise, although his martyred look was more subtle than Rosalind's, only a slight tightening of his eyes.

"Did you have a good day, Jean?" Horatio asked.

"Oh, yes, I shopped all over. I was just showing Calleigh." Jean captured his arm and dragged him to the couch, where her purchases were laid out. His eyes widened. Calleigh couldn't blame him. On seeing the clothes, her first thought had been that they had been made for mannequins. No living child could possibly wear those. Rosalind wasn't hard on her clothes, but even she would have worn out these. Pink and lace were the two common denominators. They all looked like a child's version of a late 1800s ball gown. "Aren't they just adorable?" Jean enthused.

Horatio steeled himself for round one. "Jean, no child could play in these. They wouldn't last." Jean looked wounded, but before she could speak, Rosalind came down the hall.

"Hope? Hope? Kitty, kitty, kitty."

Calleigh abruptly realized that she hadn't seen Hope since she got home. "She's probably hiding, Rosalind." She didn't say from what. She didn't have to.

"Who's Hope?" Jean asked.

"The cat," Horatio replied. "Calico. Have you seen her?"

Jean's eyes moved quickly toward the glass doors to the beach, and Calleigh caught it. "Mother, did you let the cat out?"

"No, I'm sure I didn't. I thought I saw something once, but nothing was there."

Jean's other activity of the day besides shopping had been extensive cleaning – although thankfully not rearranging the furniture. "Did you have the doors open when you were cleaning, Mother?"

"I took the rugs out to shake them. But nothing was there." She settled into the wish as the fact, her specialty. "Nothing got out. She's here."

Horatio returned from a quick survey of the house. "I don't see her anywhere. If she's hidden, she's hidden well."

"I think Mother let her out, and she probably ran," Calleigh said.

Rosalind looked from the door to Jean, sniffling a bit, and Horatio picked her up. "Tell you what, Angel, let's go out and call along the beach. She might come to us. Okay?" She nodded, and they went out. The minute the glass snapped shut behind them, Calleigh turned on her mother, frustration with the whole situation boiling over.

"Mother, that was her pet! Can't you take care of anything?"

Jean's expression stopped Calleigh before the tirade had even gotten well started. She had seen her mother over the years look confused, dazed, drunk, hurt, and oblivious, but she had never seen her look shattered to the depths of her soul. The pain in the eyes was so intense, so out of proportion, that Calleigh stopped in bewilderment. Jean turned abruptly and headed for the guest room, which she had moved her things into that day at Calleigh's suggestion that morning. The door shut behind her firmly, leaving Calleigh standing stunned in the living room. What on earth had that been about? Not just getting yelled at about the cat. Calleigh shook her head, giving up on understanding her mother for the moment, and headed out the front door.

She called around the house, looking under all the bushes, then walked around the block doing the same. She could hear Horatio and Rosalind at a distance. Finally, on the next block, she heard a faint reply. "Hope? Kitty, kitty, kitty."

"Meow," a nearby tree replied. Calleigh shielded her eyes against the setting sun and finally spotted the cat wrapped firmly around a branch. With determination, Calleigh scrambled up into the tree, fortunately one with some lower branches to make a possible, if awkward, ladder. Hope didn't want to be rescued. She retreated further up into the branches, and Calleigh reluctantly admitted that she needed assistance. She dropped neatly from the tree and headed for the beach. The two figures were far up the shoreline, still searching, Rosalind on Horatio's shoulders.

"Horatio," she called. He heard her and turned back instantly, his stride quickening. She met him halfway. "I've found her. She's up a tree, though, and I need more hands than I've got."

"Which tree?" She led him to the scene, and he lifted Rosalind off his shoulders and set her down. "Stand there, okay, Angel? Don't get in the road. This is going to take both of us, and we can't hold onto you."

"Okay," Rosalind promised, eagerly peering up into the tree. Horatio swung up into it, Calleigh following, and with his longer arms, he managed to hook the cat as she tried to retreat.

"Got her. Ow!"

"You okay, Horatio?"

"Fine. Cats have claws." He pulled her down, and Calleigh grabbed Hope by the scruff as Horatio detached the claws from the branches. "There we go. Give me the cat, then you get down, and I'll lower her to you." The extrication from the tree was accomplished with smooth teamwork, and Rosalind, who had stood like a statue at the base of the tree, gave Hope a scratch behind the ears.

"Hope didn't like Gramma."

"Does anybody?" Calleigh muttered under her breath. She caught Rosalind's hand as Horatio got a tighter grip on the cat. "Come on, let's go home."

The silence in the house was loud as they opened the door. "Mother? It's okay, Mother. We found her." Calleigh was feeling a bit guilty now, remembering how wounded her mother had looked. "Mother?" She knocked on the guest room door, then slowly opened it. Her sigh brought Horatio to her side in an instant. Jean lay on the bed, a mostly empty bottle of whiskey beside her, tear tracks down her cheeks. She was dead to the world.

Horatio stepped into the room, safely retrieving the bottle, carefully tucking Jean in. He closed the door and gave Calleigh a quick hug. "It's not your fault, Cal."

"I yelled at her for letting the cat out."

"You didn't make her what she is." He hugged her more tightly, letting her lose herself in his strong arms. In the living room floor, Rosalind was half scolding and half commiserating with Hope. Calleigh let herself be held for a while, feeling absolutely put through the wringer by this entire day. She finally pulled away.

"We'd better eat. Horatio, you're bleeding." He glanced at the neat trail of cat scratches down his arm. "Go clean that out while I cook. I guess Mother won't be joining us tonight."

Rosalind stood up, coming over with concern to inspect the damage. "Hope did that?"

Horatio nodded. "She was afraid she'd fall, Rosalind. Don't blame her."

Rosalind turned around, resuming her scolding with twice the vigor. "Bad cat. Bad cat." Hope looked up at her, yawned, then jumped onto the couch, rolled herself into a ball, and fell asleep. Horatio chuckled, then headed into the bathroom, and Rosalind followed Calleigh into the kitchen. "Gramma?"

"She's asleep." Calleigh opened the refrigerator, then closed it. "What would you say to ordering a pizza, Rosalind?"

"Pizza!" She darted over to the cordless phone, then returned, holding it out to Calleigh.

"What's the occasion?" Horatio came out of the bathroom.

"We survived this day," Calleigh said.

He nodded. "Good reason to celebrate." But his eyes, meeting Calleigh's over their daughter's head, held the same thought: We still have to deal with tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry for the delay. I got tied up dealing with a major allergic reaction this last week. I would have rather been writing.

(H/C)

"There is no new thing under the sun."

The Bible, Ecclesiastes

(H/C)

Her eyes opened onto half light. The dim, as yet uncertain morning crept into their bedroom surreptitiously through the windows. Horatio was beside her, on his back, and because she had been instinctively facing him in her sleep, seeking the rock of his presence in the swirling river of their current circumstances, he was her first sight of the day. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, and his forehead was furrowed with the analysis he was conducting there. Calleigh noted the clock on the nightstand beyond him and reluctantly consigned herself to face the day.

"Good morning, Handsome."

His eyes crinkled into a smile, and his forehead smoothed out somewhat. "Good morning, Beautiful."

Calleigh pushed herself up onto one elbow. "Did you get much sleep?"

"About as much as you did. I've got an idea, though."

"My hero."

He chuckled. "Better wait until we see if it works or not."

"I don't care. I'll take any ideas at the moment. I'll take bad ideas."

"Nice to know the bar is set so low."

She smiled, but it froze on her face and fell back immediately into seriousness. "Horatio, what's the idea?"

"I think it might help things if your mother had something to occupy her time, something besides us. I was thinking maybe a club or group. There are groups for just about everything in Miami, a lot of them for retirees. What are her interests?"

Calleigh's anticipation dissolved into bitterness. "Getting drunk and making up reality that doesn't exist. I haven't seen that club in the yellow pages lately." It was only when she saw the fleeting shadow across his face that she realized how sharp her words had been. She slid over tightly next to him. "I'm sorry, Horatio. I appreciate the thought, and you might have a point. I just don't know who would want to spend time with her."

He gave her a quick squeeze, the touch reassuring, the tone still unswervingly goal directed. "Have you ever seen her do crafts?" Calleigh shook her head, pillowed on his shoulder. "Gardening? Reading? Does she like to travel, or talk about travel?"

She stiffened slightly. "Travel. She's never done it, but she does like to talk about it. Actually, she sometimes likes to believe that she has done it."

"Well, let's take a run through the database of organizations in Miami. Maybe getting her into a club will help, and those people like to talk about trips they never made, too."

Calleigh sighed. "The difference is, Mother really believes she made them. They just wish they could."

"It can't hurt, Calleigh. I'm sorry, but that's the best I've come up with all night."

She spooned even more closely into him. "I love you, Horatio."

He kissed the top of her head. "I love you, too." His kisses were starting to travel south when Rosalind stirred and whimpered across the hall, the sound instantly slicing through their collective conscience. Both scrambled up immediately and went into the nursery. Rosalind hadn't woken up, but she was dreaming about something unpleasant, frowning in her sleep, her muscles twitching slightly. Horatio pushed her stuffed horse closer to her and stroked her lightly, like a cat. She settled instantly under his loving touch, and one hand curled around the horse's leg. The frown faded, and she dropped once more into deep sleep.

Calleigh turned and headed for the kitchen, her stride trying to be longer than her legs allowed, and when Horatio caught up with her a few minutes later, she had the phone book out on the kitchen table, thumbing through the yellow pages. Their eyes met in perfect understanding, and he retreated into the living room, switching on the computer on the desk. The house, like the lab, became the scene of an investigation, both of them searching with passionate determination for the answer that they knew had to be out there. Whatever it was, wherever it was, they would find it. They would protect the innocent victims.

(H/C)

Tripp entered Horatio's office, his report starting without salutation. "Got the ID on the bodies. Both were reported to missing persons. Didn't know each other, though. No connection I can find. The man was happily married; the woman was single. Don't think they were having an affair."

Horatio sat back from the file on his desk and sighed. "I'd hoped that they were, but I didn't really expect it. I think this killer is trying to recreate the physical scenes. That's what's matters to him, what he spent all his time on. Think how long it took to set that up. He probably picked them for physical type. It wasn't personal; he's got a fixation on old crime scenes."

A momentary question shot through Tripp's face before he dismissed it unspoken, and Horatio raised an eyebrow. "I was just thinking, H. All the time that scene took. Took as long on the original. I wonder who did commit that murder in 1922."

"I've been thinking about that a little, too. I've done some research on the case yesterday and this morning. It might have been a contract killing – the minister's family could have afforded it – but I think his wife had to be involved in setting it up, whether she actually committed the murders or not. That scattering the letters around and having Mrs. Mills' tongue and larynx ripped out – the organs used in singing. Mrs. Mills had met Mr. Hall at his church, where she sang in the choir. That whole setup was the revenge of a woman scorned. I think she might have contracted out the killings, but she probably stage managed the scene, even if she wasn't there." He wrenched the investigation back from the last century. "Not that it really makes much difference here. This one wasn't committed by the same perp."

Tripp nodded once. "Just background." Horatio's eyes sharpened, looking past him, and Tripp turned to see Dawson entering, a piece of paper in his hands. He tossed it onto Horatio's desk, and Tripp moved closer. Horatio turned the piece of paper sideways so they both could read it easily.

Dawson again sounded more enthusiastic than professional. "I worked half the night on this, Lieutenant Caine. First, the bodies do physically resemble the victims in the 1922 case. Then, I picked out other cases I thought a historical serial killer might try to recreate. Working assumptions: He's sticking with unsolved cases, or technically unsolved ones, anyway, and he's sticking with cases that were committed either in a remote area or inside a building, not in public streets. Too hard to recreate somebody else's public scene without getting caught. There are so many cases out there, but I also assumed he's sticking with fairly well-known ones in true crime. No fun in it for him if somebody didn't get the reference pretty quickly. These are the most infamous unsolved ones I could think of."

The list was neatly printed, with the name of each case and a brief description next to it.

Borden, Falls River, Massachusetts, 1892. Technically unsolved; guilt of daughter usually presumed. Husband and wife both killed inside house, sharp instrument, probably ax or hatchet. Daughter and maid also inside house – hard to recreate, but if he focuses on scenes alone, might ignore that fact. Killed around noon.

Wallace, Liverpool, England, 1931. Woman killed inside house, blunt instrument, iron bar or similar. Husband lured away from house by a suspicious phone call the night before setting an appointment at a nonexistent distant address – husband was insurance agent. Husband tried and acquitted on appeal – no true evidence against him. No one in house other than woman and perp at time of murder. Killed around 6:45 p.m.

Axeman of New Orleans, 1911-1919. Various people attacked in their homes by man with ax. All attacks at night. Perp broke in through door, killed or wounded, left, leaving bloody ax in yard. Most vics grocers, most Italian. Attacks occurred with family in homes.

Zodiac, 1960s, California. Serial killer, worked in remote areas until last known murder, of a cab driver in San Francisco. Perp communicated with police, both in cryptograms and open notes. Notes sent to newspapers. Weapons of choice: Both guns and knives. Time of killings: Varied from night to broad daylight.

Oakes, Nassau, 1943. Millionaire victim killed in his bed, bed subsequently set on fire in unsuccessful effort to burn evidence. Weapon: Blunt instrument to head. Many evidence handling irregularities similar to Hall-Mills case. Guest in adjacent bedroom, but large house and stormy night. Time of killing: Night.

Horatio read through the list twice, then looked back up at Dawson. "Any other ideas?"

"Some of those are serial killings, some individual cases, but I'd vote for individual cases. If he wanted to duplicate, say, the Zodiac, he would have started with a Zodiac murder, not Hall-Mills. I put the serial killers in there because they fit all my criteria, but I'd lean toward the others next. Of course, it might be something not on my list. I'm not the killer." His enthusiasm faded a bit, his earnest eyes locking with Horatio's. "You do believe that, don't you?"

"At the moment," Horatio replied amiably. "I had a discussion with your former supervisors yesterday afternoon. They all think quite highly of you. And honestly, Dawson, if you are the killer, you're running an incredible risk being on the investigation yourself and underestimating who you are dealing with." He gave the younger man a quick smile. "There are coincidences in timing here, but I'm inclined to call them just coincidences unless further evidence is found. There are plenty of people besides you interested in true crime. There's probably even a club in Miami for that, too." His lips twisted slightly at the last sentence, and Tripp and Dawson both looked blank, not following the thought. Horatio instantly wrenched his mind back to the investigation. "If you had to pick, from the point of view of a killer committing a crime to leave us a scene recreation, which would you do next?"

Dawson had already considered that, and his answer was without hesitation. "The Borden case. It's infamous, yet low risk if he doesn't try to involve the witnesses like the maid in the house. And I don't think he is. There's a rather infamous witness in the Hall-Mills case, and no counterpart to her has turned up yet. She was a real nut. Everyone called her the pig woman. She said she heard something on the night of the murder, thought someone was trying to steal her pigs, and went out on her mule to check. She rode out that distant road and saw several people – the number and identity varied, but it eventually wound up including most of the family of the minister – in the dark committing the murder. She rode her mule back a few hours later and found Mrs. Hall still there. Or so she said. Her story changed several times, and it never sounded plausible at all. Besides, several of the people she alleged she saw had very good alibis for that time. Her word against all of theirs wasn't worth much. I think she was an old eccentric wanting to get in on the act, but if this killer wanted to try to recreate a case down to the witnesses, he would have tried to lure out some old woman to come by the scene. I think he's focusing on the physical scenes themselves. And on those criteria, I'd go for either Borden or Wallace, advantage to Borden because it's a U.S. case. Unless he's a pure true crime freak, in which case I'd vote Wallace because that's really a much better mystery, although it was from England. If Lizzie Borden didn't commit that murder, she certainly aided in it, and not many people think she was innocent. The Wallace case is a real puzzle." He ran down finally and gave a half smile of apology to Horatio and Tripp. "I know, I sound like a book. Sorry. I do realize this is a real current killer we're after."

Horatio pushed back from his desk and stood in one smooth motion. "Tripp, Dawson, I'd like to go with both of you to talk again to the relatives of the victims. I have one appointment this morning, but I should be free around noon or so. If anything new comes up before then, keep me posted."

"What's your appointment?" Tripp asked.

"I'm seeing a psychiatrist."

(H/C)

Calleigh frowned into her microscope, and Horatio paused in the door to the room, watching her. She realized, of course, and straightened up, smiling at him. "Hello, Handsome. Did you get in touch with the criminal psychiatrist?"

"Yes, I did. He'll see both of us at 11:00 a.m. Assuming you want to come along, that is."

"Sure do. I was almost finished with this, anyway."

"What were you doing?"

She moved over to let him see. "Trying to work out tool marks from the edges of the wounds where the woman's throat was cut. Alexx thinks he was right-handed, but it's a really strange cut. Left to right, but it was cut from in front, not from behind. Actually cut from on top. The woman was probably flat on the ground, already dead, and he was leaning over her."

"Well, if the victim is already dead, the usual reason for cutting a throat from behind wouldn't apply. There's no need to grab and control your victim. It would seem that that would make it harder to determine handedness, though."

"That's what I thought, but Alexx disagrees. Left to right, with the killer kneeling on the right side, leaning over, cutting toward himself. He would cut toward himself, whichever way he cut. But Alexx thinks it would be like a dentist, for instance. When you are leaning over a person and working on their head, you almost always have your lead arm toward the feet. A right-handed dentist works from the right side of the patient. She thinks the same goes for throat-cutting."

"Far be it from me to disagree with Alexx. So do we have much for tool marks?"

"Some. It's a knife, but it had a few irregularities in the blade. If I had the knife to match these slides, I'd probably be able to identify it."

"Well, then, we'll just have to find that knife for you," he said. He looked at his watch. "Let's go." She quickly filed the evidence, and they walked out the doorway side by side.

(H/C)

The forensic psychiatrist leaned back, fingers steepled. "And the victims were not actually having an affair?"

"Not unless they were incredibly good at hiding it. We haven't found any indication that they even knew each other."

"That tells us something about this killer, then. I'd say that, to him, the victims actually became the original victims in the course of his setting up the scene. Maybe even that he made them the original victims by his actions, like an artist creates a painting. Whether they actually matched the circumstances, other than physically, before was irrelevant. By the time he got through with them, he actually believed they were the reverend and his lover."

Calleigh frowned. "You don't think he could simply be a history buff?"

"Not likely. To actually cut out someone's tongue and larynx to match up with a former case goes a long way beyond just reading about it. We also have the graphologist's report on the handwriting on the letters. This man is seriously mentally disturbed."

"You agree with her findings?" Horatio asked. "Man, prime of life."

"Yes. He was copying the original love letters, but even so, his own personality comes through. That's another detail that strikes me. Think of the time it took to copy out all those letters, to arrange the scene, to set up each detail. This man gets a psychological thrill from that detail work. Not just from the killing, but from the detail work. This intense recreation of a famous scene is his signature. Modus operandi, as you know, is the practical aspect of the crime, things necessary to commit it, like shooting your victim, or like a robber taping over a security camera. Signature is the details of the crime that aren't necessary to commit it in practical terms, but the criminal has to include them to be satisfied with his crime. They're emotionally necessary to him. For instance, shooting your victim in the shape of a cross, or dancing naked in front of a security camera. That didn't help commit the crime, but the criminal had to do it to be satisfied. This man's signature is the physical recreation of crime scenes. I'd say he has studied this for years, obsessed about true crime, even, but he also had a warped personality to begin with. The obsession combined with the love of tight detail work combined with the lack of any moral brakes makes this a most dangerous man. He is also a very organized killer, and they are harder to catch, because they are capable of controlling themselves and planning out their crimes carefully. He could, if needed, put it off until another opportunity, I think. When he actually is recreating a scene, though, I think he becomes the famous killer, in his own eyes, the criminal who managed to commit this crime and get away with it, and his victims become the original victims. He really at that moment believes it. Whether they were having an affair or not didn't matter, because the original victims were, and these became those through his process. By wanting to believe it, he actually did. Do you follow that line of thinking?"

"More than you realize," Calleigh sighed. The psychiatrist cocked his head, reminding her momentarily of Horatio, though there was no physical resemblance. "Take somebody who, like you say, invents her own reality, honestly believes things, even with no basis in fact at the moment. Are people born like that, or do they become like that?"

The psychiatrist had noted the female pronoun, but he maintained the professional front. "It can go both ways. Almost always, there was a weakness genetically or some abnormality in personality that can be traced from early childhood, but when someone retreats selectively from certain points of reality and creates his own, it often was precipitated by one extremely traumatic event. The person simply can't accept the reality and so denies it, and the pattern is formed. From that point, anything unacceptable is simply replaced with something acceptable, as a defense mechanism. Quite often, we find that one event in a person's history. Of course, very few of these people wind up as criminals. In fact, they can sometimes be quite successful and functional. It's usually only in certain limited areas that this magical thinking, as we call it, occurs."

"Magical thinking?"

"That's the term for honestly believing something is true simply because you wish it were. Different from wishing, because it is totally unconscious. The person has no control over it and is deceiving himself on the deepest levels. I'd say 80 of the cases I've seen had one major event I found that precipitated the tendency, but almost all of those 80 also weren't entirely normal personality-wise in the first place, even before that event."

Horatio spoke up. "How would you discover the one event? Certainly not ask them."

"No. If you asked, you would hit an immediate barrier, the strongest defense mechanism that person can raise. The traumatic event no longer exists to them, because they cannot deal with it, and if anything starts to remind them, they totally shut down and must immediately create again the new reality in which it never happened. Sometimes we can uncover the event through hypnosis, although it's usually far repressed, even under hypnosis. The thing to remember here is that this is not a conscious process, far deeper. The person himself doesn't allow himself to be aware of it. You won't ever get to the root of it by conscious means. Sometimes, we can uncover the event just by history, talking with those who knew the person involved from different times of life."

Calleigh sighed. "How do you deal with someone like that?"

The psychiatrist gave them both a look of pure sympathy. "It's almost impossible to, say, reprogram their thinking or 'fix' them. They honestly cannot deal with whatever reality they are denying that started them on this track. It just takes tremendous patience and tolerance, and also, keeping them busy with other activities not near their mental block helps. I wish we had a magic pill that gave the answer, but a lot of times, we don't."

Horatio and Calleigh looked at each other, and the psychiatrist leaned back a fraction, granting them the privacy of the moment. At the same instant, they both squared their shoulders and turned to face him again. "Back to the killer," Horatio said. "Any ideas on catching him?"

The psychiatrist leaned forward again. "You might wage a sort of war in the press. The killer almost certainly follows his own press – 95 of organized killers do. Even if he doesn't communicate directly with the police, he will read the articles. Bring up mistakes. This man couldn't stand to think that he did something wrong. It would annoy him, and he would have to prove to you that it hadn't been a mistake after all. You might draw his attention more toward the police and less toward future victims if you pick apart his scene recreations. It would infuriate him, and anyone infuriated is more likely to make mistakes. He might even start communicating with you, and your evidence analysis could come into play there. Is there anything he did wrong? Aside from them not having an affair. To him, who those people were didn't matter; they became Mr. Hall and Mrs. Mills for him. Pointing out the lack of an affair won't bother him, but if he made any mistake at all in the physical scene, and you played on that card, he would have to react. Psychologically, he would have no choice but to prove you wrong."

A slow smile curved Horatio's lips, a predatory smile, and Calleigh sat up, waiting for the idea, already knowing that it was a good one. "One thing Dawson mentioned. He didn't use a crabapple tree to put the bodies under. Pretty hard to find them in the Everglades."

The psychiatrist nodded. "That's exactly the kind of thing I was talking about. Good luck and good skill, Lieutenant."

Horatio stood, and Calleigh quickly followed suite. "Thank you," she said, and she softly added, "For everything."

The sympathetic look returned. "Good luck," he repeated, and this time, he didn't add to it.

Horatio's cell phone rang, and he snapped it open. "Horatio. When? Where? On my way." The phone clicked shut with finality, and Horatio turned to Calleigh. "Lizzie Borden has just struck again in Miami."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for the long delay. RL got overwhelming for a bit. Continued thoughts and prayers would be appreciated. So would reviews.

A/N 2: I agree that the Ramsey case is a notorious puzzle. I have studied it and do have strong opinions on the subject (that both parents are innocent), though no alternative perp to put forward, but the reason it was left off Dawson's notorious murders list is that, out of respect for the privacy of the individuals involved, I am not using any case in my fic in which any of the people directly affected are still alive. Their tragedy is bad enough without my joining the ranks of writers who exploit it for entertainment or, even worse, sales.

(H/C)

"Memories are like fire. Some provide a warm glow to toast the soul in front of on a cold evening. Some sear into the mind like a branding iron, leaving a scar bearing their shape. And a few burn the landscape to desolation, leaving only ashes."

Deb, Hidden Fires

(H/C)

Calleigh marched into the room and was almost rocked back on her heels by the scene before her. She was used to violence, but the pure hatred in this scene still hung in the room, almost palpable -- the hatred, she realized, that had erupted into action over a century earlier. This murderer had only copied the setting, and even the copy was chilling. For the first time, she truly understood why Lizzie Borden was almost universally believed guilty. No stranger, no hit man had set that murder up, not the original. No, even a century later, even by copy, the hatred was alive and chillingly personal.

The man lay on the couch, his feet resting on the floor but his body tipped to the side, his head resting on the couch arm, as if he had settled down in this slightly corkscrewed position for a nap, a folded suit jacket underneath his head for a pillow. That touch of comfort seemed almost a mockery to the rest of the scene. His face was unrecognizable as human. He had been attacked so fiercely that blood spattered the walls and floors. The huge rips in his face still oozed blood and brain matter, but there was no indication at all of any other wound aside from his head. Calleigh swallowed hard.

Dawson was standing to the side of the room, studying the scene. "There should be eleven," he said, almost like he was quoting a text book or studying a museum exhibit. "Eleven whacks with a hatchet. Nineteen for the stepmother. Let's see if he was counting. That might be another mistake, like the crabapple tree."

Calleigh stared at him. "You think somebody counted while doing this?"

"Probably our man did. I'm sure Lizzie didn't."

Horatio's cell phone rang, and he was slower than usual on answering it. Calleigh realized abruptly that he hadn't said a word since entering the room, and she turned to face him with concern. He looked paler than usual as he studied the body, but his eyes were determinedly, with an effort rooted in the present, and he gave her a slight smile that was meant to be reassuring. "I'm okay," he mouthed, pulling out the cell phone. "Horatio. You're sure on that? Thank you. Yes, that helps us." He snapped the phone shut. "You're a good guesser, Dawson. Knew just what he'd do next."

Dawson turned away from the body for the first time since they had arrived. "Coincidence. It was an educated guess."

"I'm sure." Horatio tapped the cell phone with a finger. "That was the graphologist. I gave her your note from yesterday listing your former supervisors. She was just reporting that the handwriting definitely does not match the man who copied those Hall-Mills letters."

Dawson relaxed. "So you believe I'm innocent now?"

"Yes, but you can help us." Horatio forced himself to look at the body again. The setting helped, nothing at all like his mother's kitchen. "You said there should be eleven strikes." Calleigh was relieved he had heard their earlier conversation. "Any place else we might want to look for mistakes?"

Dawson instantly went back into museum analysis mode. "It's really very good. He even got the coat. They had a horrible Victorian style carpet in the original sitting room, but you couldn't expect to match that. The house isn't a match, but it's probably as close as he could get. Two stories and roughly corresponding rooms to the sitting room and the guest bedroom. That original house was an architect's nightmare. It didn't have halls. The rooms led straight into each other, even the bedrooms. The only thing separate was the back servant's staircase to her quarters on the third floor. No one could hide in the rest of the house, not for long. That's another reason it would have been nearly impossible for another person to have come in without Lizzie's knowledge."

"What about the servant?"

"She was up in her quarters taking a brief nap. She was ill that morning. Besides, she actually liked her job and liked the Bordens. Lizzie said she herself was out in the barn loft, but there was heavy dust there and no footprints at all. The other daughter was out of town, many miles away."

"So the house design, maybe, but it sounds like he did the best he could. Anything else?"

"Timing. Mrs. Borden was murdered at least an hour earlier. She had to be, because if Andrew had died first, she would have inherited as his wife, even if just for a few minutes, and her heirs would have then inherited. If Lizzie wanted the money, which she definitely did – her father was an old miser who wouldn't even have indoor plumbing installed, and there's a lot of evidence that she wanted a society life that he wouldn't let her have – then there had to be no question that he outlived his wife, so that the daughters, as alternative heirs once his wife was dead, would inherit."

"How much money was there?" Calleigh asked, curious.

"Around half a million dollars. That was in 1892. It would be many times that today."

"People have killed for a lot less," Horatio noted. "Given the design of the house as you described it, that's another strike against the professional hit man theory."

Dawson nodded enthusiastically. "No way he would hang around inside that house for over an hour between murders. It's just asking to be seen."

"Back to the present," Horatio said. "Anything else we can call him on for an error?"

"Your ME will have to check it out, but Andrew was attacked as he slept. Abby, the stepmother, was struck down on the floor and straddled while being hit. The killer would have had to look straight into her eyes." For the first time, Dawson trailed off in one of his recreations. "I can't believe somebody actually would go that far to recreate a crime scene." He looked back at the man's horribly disfigured face. One eye was literally cut in half, Calleigh realized.

Tripp appeared in the door. "You say Andrew and Abby?"

"Those were their names. The Bordens, I mean."

"These, too. Andrew and Abigail Reynolds."

A surge of pity, quickly followed by anger, flared through Calleigh like a forest fire. "He picked them just for their names?"

Horatio's eyes sharpened. "How did he know their names? How were they listed in the phone book, Tripp?"

"I'll check on it."

Horatio studied the scene again. "There's no way the killer would have been unmarked. Too much splatter. Pretty bold in broad daylight."

Dawson nodded. "Most people think Lizzie committed the murders naked. She was seen pretty soon after Andrew's death."

"Let's look at Abby." Horatio turned to head upstairs, and Calleigh came up behind him, touching him gently on the arm.

"Are you really okay?" she asked.

"No, I'm not." His voice was a fiercely angry whisper. "That somebody would do this to a couple merely because of their names, just to recreate an unsolved scene. I'm going to find this one, Calleigh. He's going down."

"I know. It infuriates me, too. But actually, I wasn't thinking of them, at least not just then."

He tracked her thought. "Yes, I'm okay. It rocked me for a minute, but really, they're nothing alike. At least, not much." He gave her a weak smile. "And thanks to you, I can get rid of the image of my mother's body pretty quickly now." He reached out to brush her cheek with his fingertips. "Thank you."

Footsteps approached, and Dawson cleared his throat behind them on the stairs. "Um, weren't we going up to see Abby?"

Calleigh sighed, and they resumed their trek up the stairs. The guest bedroom was to the right, and there was the body of Abigail Reynolds on the floor, slumped over. The attack on her had been even more vicious. Horatio studied the blood. "We'll really need Alexx, but I'm not sure there's over an hour's difference here. It's not that much more congealed than his."

"How was this one reported?" Calleigh asked suddenly.

"911 call, anonymous," Dawson replied.

Horatio straightened. "Now there's a piece of evidence we can use. It almost had to be the killer."

"Well, sure," Dawson stated. "Lizzie reported the crime herself right after it was done. He's just sticking to history."

"But in 1892, they didn't have the equipment we have to analyze calls and recordings. We need Speed. Where is he?" He whipped out his cell phone again and dialed, dropping his voice as he usually did when he was annoyed.

Calleigh walked around poor Abigail Reynolds. "Is there anything else you haven't mentioned to us? Anything that might help? We've got to catch this man. This isn't a crime museum, Dawson. These are real people."

He flinched. "I know that. It's just like stumbling into a book you've read fifty times. But I do know they're people." His brow furrowed in thought. "I can't see anything else that jumps out at me. The ME can help us a lot on these. Believe me, I want to catch him as much as you do."

Horatio snapped the phone shut. "He's on his way. He got delayed in traffic, he said."

"Probably true," Calleigh pointed out.

His expression softened a little. "Probably is."

Alexx entered the room and stopped cold. "Oh, you poor baby." She knelt beside the body, snapping gloves on. "Horatio, you've got to catch this one."

The blue fire ignited in his eyes. "I intend to."

(H/C)

The rest of the day passed in an investigative whirlwind. Andrew and Abigail Reynolds had been so listed in the phone book, unwittingly signing their death sentences. According to Alexx, the killer had killed Abby first, but the time was tighter than the over an hour on the Borden case – a mistake for Horatio to mention in the press release. Chillingly, the counts for the hatchet strikes were correct at eleven and nineteen. At least both victims had been killed at the first blow. Abby had fallen very near where she was found, but Andrew had been forced back onto the couch and later posed after death. While he was killed there, he certainly hadn't been sleeping. Speed was analyzing the 911 tape along with the other evidence. Dawson was predicting the Wallace case to be recreated next. Horatio was predicting the capture of the killer before that. He hated to quit working on this one, and Calleigh had to absolutely drag him out of CSI when it was time to go get Rosalind. "I hate to mention it, but you did have plans for tonight," she reminded him tentatively. "If you want to back out, I'll understand. We can pick another occasion."

It took a minute for tonight's plans to connect. As usual on an investigation, he had shaken off personal distractions. They had found a travel club in Miami which was having a dinner meeting tonight, and Horatio had booked himself and Jean to introduce her to the group. He was obviously the better candidate to convince her to go. "You don't have to," Calleigh reiterated.

He sighed. "No, we need to deal with her, too. Two problems to solve." His eyes hardened again. "But those people, Cal. I will catch him."

"Tomorrow," she insisted. "You need a break from today, anyway. I just wish it didn't have to be with Mother."

He closed the file on his desk and stood up. "I wish a lot of things, Cal. Somehow, it doesn't usually work out that way." He came around his desk and wrapped his arms around her, finding his heart's home. She melted into him. "But once in a while," he continued, his low, silky voice tickling her ear, "wishes come true."

(H/C)

By the time they picked up Rosalind and got home, Horatio had switched gears into full charm. Jean didn't stand a chance. After greeting her smoothly and inquiring about her day, he said, managing to keep a straight face, "Jean, would you do me the honor of being my dinner date tonight? There's a meeting at this club."

Jean was thrilled, of course, not even questioning why he wasn't taking Calleigh instead. She changed clothes, and they left, with only Horatio's backward glance at Calleigh showing his true feelings.

"I want to go," Rosalind stated at supper.

"I know you did, Angel. But this is a surprise for Gramma, okay? Dada will be home with you other nights." Although he might not if this case went on much further.

Rosalind cocked her head, reminding Calleigh irresistibly of Horatio. The blue eyes completed the image. "Surprise?"

"We're hoping to find her some friends, Rosalind. So maybe she wouldn't be . . ."

"Here?" Rosalind suggested brightly.

Her daughter was entirely too perceptive at times. "Um, well, yes. At least, not as much."

Rosalind settled back into her chair. "Okay. Good surprise."

"Right." Calleigh and her daughter shared a smile. "Tell you what, let's take a short walk down on the beach before your bedtime. Okay?"

"Okay." Rosalind pushed her empty plate away with both hands. "With Hope?"

"No. She doesn't need out. We don't want her up another tree."

The walk pacified Calleigh as well as Rosalind. She had her own private agenda for the evening and wasn't looking forward to it. If there was an answer, she wasn't sure she wanted to know it. The tide always soothed her, washing the beach ceaselessly, wiping away the scars in the sand, leaving a new surface for more footprints. So renewing. Unlike people's spirits, which could be broken and never fully recover.

Later, when Rosalind was safely asleep, Calleigh settled down on the couch with the phone. Becky's question about why Jean had chosen this moment to move to Miami had kept chasing itself around Calleigh's mind. Why, indeed? Why not a few years ago when her father died? What had changed in Darnell? The trouble was, she had in effect shaken the dust of the town off her feet on leaving, and most of her friends from school had left, too. Finally, she had remembered Mr. Joe (he had a last name, but the kids had never used it), who ran the gas station/convenience store on the corner, so handy for the children to duck into after school for sodas. Calleigh had often lingered there, putting off going home, and he had eventually offered her small odd jobs, straightening stock, sweeping the floor. He had never asked questions, but the sympathy in his eyes was noted and appreciated. There had been no need for questions. Everyone in Darnell knew her parents.

Yes, directory assistance informed her, Joe's Service Station was still in Darnell, and Joe himself still had a residential listing. She took a deep breath, drumming her fingers for a minute against the phone, and then dialed quickly, suddenly angry with herself for being a coward.

"Hello?" It was the same voice, just years older.

"Mr. Joe? This is Calleigh. Calleigh Caine now, but . . . "

"Calleigh! Lord, yes, I remember you, child. Always hanging around, but you were a lot of help. How are things?"

"Wonderful. I've got a great husband and an adorable daughter. And I'm a CSI in Miami."

"Good for you. You deserve it, honey, if anybody ever did."

Calleigh hesitated, then mentally kicked herself into the designated topic. "Mr. Joe, is anything different in the last month or so in Darnell?"

As years ago, he didn't ask questions. "Well, let's see now. The place never changes too much. Bob Calligan died. The old abandoned house on the corner was torn down finally – been there so long, we were joking about putting it on the National Historical Register."

"Any new people moved into town?"

"Well, there's just one I can think of. In the last month, anyway. Older fella, retired."

"Older than you?"

"Watch your sass, girl. I'm not retired. They'll have to bury me at the station, I think. 'Bout the same age, I'd say. Seems nice enough. Tips me on gas instead of counting out the pennies in his change. He was from Louisiana as a kid, he said, and came back to retire here. Pretty wife. Nice couple, friendly."

"What's his name?"

"Richard Matthews."

"Thanks, Mr. Joe. Thanks a lot."

His tone was still puzzled but pleasant. "Any time, Calleigh. You send me a picture of your daughter, you hear?"

"I will," she promised. She hung up, then called directory assistance again. Yes, there was a new listing for Richard Matthews in Darnell. She hesitated before dialing, running the name through her memories. No bells at all. She'd never met him and never, as far as she knew, heard of him. She dialed.

"Hello." A pleasant, older voice.

"Is this Richard Matthews?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

Calleigh took a deep breath. "My name is Calleigh Caine. I think you might know my mother – Jean Hayes. Her maiden name was Duquesne."

His voice was still amiable but a bit tighter. "Yes, I do. Actually, we grew up near each other. We played together as kids."

Bingo. It was like finding a critical piece of evidence, knowing even before complete analysis that this one would be crucial to the case. Calleigh had never in her memory encountered an old friend from her mother's childhood. Her grandparents had disapproved of her father and basically disowned them after the quick wedding. The story of her family's former importance and status, whether real or imagined by her mother, was often repeated, but there were almost no ties in Calleigh's childhood to the people. Her mother's past, like so much else, had been long on fantasy but short on hard detail and experience. Her mother's family had lived in another nearby town, but they had almost no contact. Her grandparents had died long ago, early in her childhood. Literally, Richard Matthews was the first link to her mother's childhood she could remember encountering.

"Mr. Matthews, this is going to sound like a crazy question. I'm doing some research into family history." True enough. She didn't have to say why. "Is there anything you can tell me about my mother's childhood?"

The voice was definitely tighter now and sadder. "You can't ask her?" Somehow, the question was like that Latin construction, the one that presumes the answer to be negative.

"No."

He hesitated again. "What do you know about her childhood?"

"Next to nothing. The family had wealth and prestige once, or so she said. I barely knew them."

He sighed. "Has she ever mentioned Jo Anne?"

"Who?"

"That answers that question." He sighed. "Jo Anne was her little sister."

"I thought she was an only child."

"No. One sister, about three years younger. Oh, she was sweet, Jo Anne was. Everyone loved her. Like an angel. Never caused anybody any worry. Not like Jean. Not that Jean was a troublemaker, but she was, well I guess you'd call it fragile. She never seemed strong, really. In her mind, I mean."

Calleigh nodded, then realized that he couldn't see it, of course. "I know exactly what you mean. Tell me about Jo Anne," she prompted.

"We used to all play together. My brother and I lived next door, and we'd play out in a big field near our houses. There was an old man who lived there, but he liked us. Said he enjoyed the sound of kids playing. We had all sorts of games we made up in that field." He hesitated again. "One day, the old man was burning some old boxes. He had a can of kerosene that he had poured on the pile before he threw the match. We were over there watching, and he went back to get more boxes and trash to put on the fire now that it was going. Max found a rabbit in the field, a baby rabbit, that had a hurt leg. He was going to bury it, but Jean was trying to get him to take it to the vet. Jo Anne was five, and Jean was supposed to be watching her, but she got distracted with the rabbit. I guess we all did." He stopped for almost a full minute that time, and Calleigh let him gather whatever strength he needed for this. Already, she had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Jo Anne saw the gallon can of kerosene there, and she had seen the man pour some on the fire – before he lit it, of course. I guess she decided to help him. She picked up the can and went back up to the fire to put more on. Jean looked up just then and yelled at her, and Jo Anne turned back to look at us. She was pouring. The fire ran up to the can. The can exploded." He stopped again briefly. Calleigh shuddered, and Hope, sensitive to mood as all cats are, crawled into her lap and began purring. Calleigh stroked her fur. "Jo Anne panicked," Mr. Matthews continued. "She was on fire, and she ran. All over that field. The three of us and the man had to chase her down. He rolled her, but she was still screaming. Her parents weren't home. He put us all in the car and drove her to the hospital. She died a few hours later. They said she had third degree burns over 90 of her body. Nothing anyone could do for her."

Calleigh sat there stunned, imagining the scene. The terrified girl, who somehow in her mind's eye resembled a 5-year-old Rosalind, screaming, running desperately in a futile attempt to escape the flames that were devouring her. And Jean and the boys and the man, chasing the girl frantically, knowing that it was probably too late. Her mother, who should have been watching her sister. Her own mother and father not even home. What kind of parents would give an 8-year-old that much unsupervised responsibility? Calleigh had thought that morning that the horror of the crime scene would be her worst image to deal with that day. She had been wrong.

"Are you still there, Calleigh?" Mr. Matthews sounded concerned.

"Yes, I just. . ." She wasn't sure what to say. "I'd never heard that. It must have been horrible for you. All of you."

"It was. I dreamed about it for years." He hesitated. "You aren't just doing family research, are you?"

"I am, but not just for curiosity. A professional told us that my mother probably had a bad experience early in life. She wouldn't have ever said anything herself."

"She never talked about it. Max and I talked about it and dreamed about it and slowly got past it. Jean seemed absolutely shattered. I never heard her mention Jo Anne's name after that. If anyone else did, she would just walk away with the oddest expression on her face, almost like she didn't know what we were talking about. I think her parents made it even worse."

"They blamed her," Calleigh stated firmly.

"Yes. I never heard them do it verbally, although they might have when I wasn't there. But in every look, they blamed her."

"It was their fault, even more. She was too young to be an extended baby sitter."

"Maybe they blamed her so they wouldn't have to blame themselves. Anger is easier than guilt."

"How long after that did you know her?"

"We moved away four years later. Jean was never the same after Jo Anne. Never. You couldn't even talk about it with her. She'd just disconnect and leave. I was surprised to run into her in Darnell when I first moved back. She left soon after, though. I think I remind her too much."

Calleigh was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude and sympathy for this stranger, who had revisited what must be a horrible memory just to answer the question of someone he didn't even know. "Thank you so much, Mr. Matthews. I realize how difficult this was for you."

He sighed. "Don't think I'll ever forget it. I can still hear her screams when I think about it. Still see her running around that field while we chased her. You can't ever quite forget, but you can move on."

"Yes," she said, thinking of Horatio that morning. "Thank you again."

"You're welcome. Calleigh, did you say?"

"Yes. Calleigh Caine."

"Well, I won't say it's been pleasant, Calleigh, but I'm glad to be able to fill in a chink for you in your mother's past. You should know, anyway. She was your aunt."

"Yes. Good night, Mr. Matthews. Thank you again." She hung up and sat there on the couch, and suddenly her shoulders started to shake. The tears spilled over, raining down, and she wasn't sure if they were for the overwhelmed and fragile 8-year-old her mother had once been, the aunt she had never known who never had a chance to grow up, or for the whole situation, because knowing the reasons weren't at this stage going to help. Her mother was long past any hope of dealing with this. The cat cuddled closer in sympathy, and Calleigh hugged her and cried, once again seeing in her mind's eye the child running in terror while the hungry flames feasted, effectively killing the future not just for Jo Anne but also her sister.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Shorter chapter for you tonight, but it is an update. Not sure when next one will be. I'm still dealing with RL, and things are a bit mixed up schedule wise.

Bumper Sticker: If you liked it, review! Even with the cost of sending one review, fanfic prices are still far cheaper than those you will pay for your entertainment in retail bookstores.

(H/C)

"We must take things as they are, not as we would prefer them to be."

Anthony Berkeley

(H/C)

It was later than Calleigh had expected, approaching midnight, when Horatio and Jean returned. She had seen the lights but stayed seated on the couch where she had been petting the cat for the past few hours and thinking. She ran a hand over her now-dry eyes and hoped that she looked less rattled than she felt – for Jean's sake. Illusion was pointless with Horatio.

Jean was ebullient. "Oh, that was SO much fun, Calleigh. You should have come with us. So many people who have been all over the world. After dinner, we had a presentation from Africa, and . . ." She rattled on cheerfully as she disappeared into the guest room to put down her purse.

Horatio had read Calleigh's posture flawlessly, and he came around the couch to face her. "What's wrong?" he whispered.

Calleigh tilted her head toward the guest room. "Later. I take it that went well."

He accepted the change of subject, although a slight tightening of his jaw emphasized that it was temporary. "Very well. She loved them, and they loved her. Everybody there was a specialist in vicarious living." He reached down and scratched Hope's ears, and she arched up into his hand, purring. A second later, the ears swept back, and she vanished in a calico streak as Jean surged into the middle of the living room and nearly ran into the couch in her excitement.

"And the photographs were stunning! What a wonderful group. I'm even going out to lunch with a few of them tomorrow and then to another meeting with another club they're in. Paris!"

Horatio, behind Jean's back, gave Calleigh a thumbs up. "Jean, much as we'd love to keep discussing the evening, Cal and I do have to get to work early tomorrow. We have a big case we're working at the moment. It's getting late."

Jean deflated a bit, looking at the clock. "Well, okay," she grudgingly admitted. "You do need your sleep, Horatio." She trapped him in a hug, squeezing so tightly that it was almost painful. "Thank you so much for tonight."

"You're welcome. Good night, Jean."

Calleigh had already uncurled when the Hummer first pulled into the driveway, but she stood up now. "Good night, Mother."

"Good night, dear." Her mother gave her a half wave instead of an embrace, and Calleigh was for once glad that her mother focused so much on Horatio instead of her daughter since their marriage. Calleigh herself for the first time in living memory wanted to hug her mother, wanted some connection with her, and she knew that it wouldn't have come. If Jean had hugged Calleigh, the unusually fervent response might have clued even her oblivious mind that something was wrong. Calleigh had to discuss this with Horatio first, not with Jean, not tonight.

"Mother," Calleigh reminded her, "Rosalind is asleep. You don't have to go on to bed because we are, but please stay quiet. Okay?"

"Okay." Jean vanished into the kitchen, and Horatio, standing part way down the hall, held out his hand, inviting Calleigh to join him. She did so and hugged him, throwing all the fierce grasp and new understanding into it that she couldn't with Jean, and Horatio simply held her in silence, anchoring her. Only when Jean started to come out of the kitchen did they mutually break the embrace and head for their room. Once inside, Horatio closed the door firmly, then looked at Calleigh, opening himself to her but not pushing.

Calleigh started to undress. She didn't want to start this tale until they were in bed, where she could be physically touching him throughout. Horatio followed her lead without question, and only when they were snuggled together under the sheet and Calleigh had turned out the light did she speak. "I called Darnell tonight." She relayed the story of Jo Anne, and she felt a shudder go through Horatio's body at the image.

"Poor Jean," he said softly when she had finished. "And they blamed her. No wonder she won't talk about it."

"It's more than that, though. Remember what that psychiatrist said? This isn't just avoidance, Horatio; it's totally unconscious. She doesn't have control over it, and she didn't choose it. It's a defense mechanism because she wasn't strong enough to deal with that."

"And she still isn't," he finished her thought. He felt the breath of her sigh against him.

"Right. I'm not sure what's changed. We know, but she still probably isn't going to get 'fixed,' like he said. All my life, Horatio, I watched her create her own reality, and I never even wondered what started it. It took a 2-year-old child to ask why she was like that."

He kissed the top of her head. "Rosalind is perceptive, and beautiful, and compassionate. Just like her mother."

She sniffled a bit as she pulled him even closer. "Thank you, Horatio. I could have been more patient with Mother all along, though."

"Think about it, Cal. What difference would it have made? She'd still be dysfunctional, no matter how saintly you acted with her. And you were hurting yourself, too, with excellent reason. You had to deal with that first."

The word saintly immediately brought him to mind. Horatio's patience with her mother had always been exceptional. "I would have liked to have seen you tonight, charming her to pieces. What were you thinking of all evening? Not her or travel, however much you looked it."

He chuckled. "I was actually scanning the crowd. People watching." His thoughts automatically bent back away from himself. "She really did enjoy the presentation tonight, Cal. I think this might help us – and her."

"But what do you think about Jo Anne? Better to let her know that we know?"

He hesitated. "No. I think it would cut her last anchor and leave her totally drifting. Mr. Matthews wasn't going to bring it up in conversation, I'm sure, but she couldn't even take infrequent casual contact with him around the town. When she ran from Darnell, she came to us. If she ran from us, where else could she go?"

"That's what I decided. I want to help her, but I don't think we can."

He nodded, and she felt his cheek move against her head in the dark. "Not that way. She simply can't deal with this. It's like an alcoholic, I'd say. Until they themselves really want to deal with it, no one else is going to have much luck in curing them. In fact, this is worse. Matthews said she was fragile even before this, and the psychiatrist guessed that, too. This isn't like an addiction, something that she started. She's not strong enough emotionally and never was. Forcing her to face it after 50 years might drive her totally insane." It was his turn to sigh. "So we're stuck back at square one."

Calleigh's chin suddenly came up stubbornly. "But it's a different square one. We will do something for her, Horatio. And at least, from now on, I'll try to be more patient with her."

They lay in silence for a minute after that, and then Horatio spoke again. "I wish we'd have some progress on this case. Even if it knocked us to a different square one. Getting a new perspective is still progress."

"He'll make a mistake, Horatio. He's already made a few, according to Dawson, and remember that press conference scheduled tomorrow. We'll get him."

"I just have this feeling that I'm missing something. That there's a clue somewhere I've run across that I haven't picked up on. Maybe I need to get Rosalind on the case, since she sees things we've missed."

Calleigh laughed. "She is something, isn't she? I refuse to take full credit for her, though. I think she's more like you every day."

That was an old difference of opinion between them, and they fell into the topic with relief, like a traveler settling onto a well-known road after being lost on unmarked ones. Still, sleep was a long time coming for both of them.

(H/C)

Horatio and Calleigh entered the press room side by side, with Tripp and Dawson a few feet behind them. By unspoken agreement, it was Horatio who stepped to the microphone. He was by far the most articulate of them under pressure, and this press conference was to be far more important than even the reporters knew.

"Good morning," Horatio started. "As you know, we have had two multiple murders in the last few days in Miami, and we're convinced that these are both the work of the same individual. He left several clues, and my team is processing the evidence and closing in on him even as we speak. This killer's modus operandi seems to be attempting to recreate famous old cases." He stressed attempting, hoping one of these media sharks circling in the room would nibble at the bait. He wasn't disappointed.

"Attempting, Lieutenant Caine? He seems to be recreating them fairly well, from what we've seen."

"Actually, he's made several errors. There are differences in the scenes; the Hall-Mills murders took place under a crabapple tree, for instance. The timetable on the Borden murders was also different in the original, with more gap between the two than our killer allowed. He was too much in a hurry to recreate it accurately – or possibly had much less nerve than Lizzie Borden did in 1892." Calleigh winced slightly. Comparing the killer's nerve unfavorably to that of a woman from 100 years ago was a bullet with almost audible impact. She caught Dawson's eye as he stood just beyond Horatio, and she saw the gleam of appreciation there, as well.

"Do you think you'll be able to catch him before he kills again?"

"We can't hurry the evidence, but I can assure you that this case is being worked full time, and we don't expect it to take much longer. This man is a counterfeiter, copying other people's murders, and he will be caught. He's totally unoriginal and not even a good copy." Horatio's jaw tightened. "The true originals were the victims who were living their own lives, and our heartfelt sympathy goes out to their families, as well as a personal vow. This man will be caught, and soon. That I promise you." He turned from the podium, his eyes instantly finding Calleigh's, one eyebrow raising slightly. She nodded.

"Counterfeiter," Tripp muttered as they left the press room. "That ought to sting him. Good job, H."

"Let's just hope he was watching," Horatio replied.

"I'm sure he was," Dawson said. "Statistically, through history, over 90 of caught serial killers mentioned following their own press. You challenged him, and he'll respond." He smiled slightly. "I'm looking forward to meeting this one."

"I'm looking forward to catching this one," Horatio corrected.

"Yes, of course, that's what I meant," Dawson said.

"It had better be," Horatio replied. "Let's get back to work."

(H/C)

He leaned forward, his teeth gritting so hard that he bit his lip and drew blood. He didn't notice. Counterfeiter? Caine had called him a counterfeiter? His voice was a low hiss that reverberated to fill the empty room. "You're going to regret that, Caine. I'm an artist. You'll see. Everybody will see. When the final reviews are in, I'll be the best. Just you wait."


	8. Chapter 8

Echoes of the Past, chapter 8. Please see first chapter for disclaimer, rating, etc.

A/N 1: I apologize for the delay between chapters, which was totally beyond my control. I have no computer at home right now, having loaned mine to someone who needed one, honestly needed one, didn't just want one. It will return home eventually, hopefully by summer. In the meantime, its absence has thrown a serious monkey wrench into my writing anything down. Writing is purely mental, but the writing down requires a computer. Echoes 8 has been written down in few-minute increments snatched here and there. For the same reason, I am currently unable to read anybody's fanfic, as I have posted a few times. Don't take lack of response from me at the moment personally.

A/N 2, long but necessary: Apologizing for delays comes easily; conveying a complicated decision and the reasons behind it is much more difficult. I have, however, come to a point where I must either say something or just drift off into permanent silence, and that latter isn't fair to the readers, whether you like FS or not. A drift off isn't letting you have any active voice in the decision, which I think you deserve, even if the ultimate decision must be mine. I owe the H/C fanfic world a lot. That includes, I think, an explanation. In addition, I can't both drift off into prolonged silence myself without saying anything and let it bother me when others do that. This would be a double standard. Throughout my life, I have become convinced that silence is even more open to misinterpretation than are words. Words can be misinterpreted, but you at least have a platform to take off from. The interpretation of silence is bounded only by the imagination. So I can't just fade away and give no reason. Skip this if you wish and jump to the story, but by skipping it, you forfeit your vote, and I really do want your opinions, positive or negative.

I have written all my life, and I am sure I will write for all that remains of it. However, when I was 8, I made a vow to myself that I would not contribute anything publicly to the world that I did not truly believe merited it, and the largest part of meriting it to me is how I have functioned as the conduit for the story, whether I conveyed it fully as it should have been or whether I got in the way and failed to do it justice. I don't know where the stories come from. They almost create themselves, and I translate them. Sometimes I translate better than others. That was the subject of my vow, that there were things in the world and in the bookstores that I could tell even at that age varied in quality. I concluded that I would never add to this, that unless I truly believed that I had done the best I could with a story that deserved telling, I would not share it with others. I took this vow so seriously that from that point (age 8) until age 20, only one major story had been shared with anyone, relatives included, even though I wrote constantly and proliferatively. Up until a few years ago, I had never attempted to publish anything in the general world, although I have from even before age 8 had an ambition to ultimately publish in the "real" writing world. I just didn't want to ever put anything out there that I hadn't done justice to.

When I started writing FS, it was during a downtime when I was recovering from a serious injury and unable to do much other than write. I had never heard of fanfiction sites, although I had written fanfiction along with original for years, just never shared it. When I stumbled across the H/C group, I shared FS with extreme tentativeness, figuring that there was almost safety in the anonymity, that if it totally fell flat, these people didn't know me, and I wasn't technically violating my vow because this wasn't paid and officially published writing. I liked it, but the ultimate judgment of garbage or not, I think, always comes from the audience. To my astonishment, people liked it. They wanted more. The story became a series, which was never my intention, although my control over my writing, as stated, is next to none. The next year, through Yet to Be, was marvelous, and the H/C community in that year gave me the confidence to finally branch out and really try submitting things systematically and seriously in the real world. I still am doing that, and slowly, an article here and a poem there, I'm meeting with progressive success at it. The list gave me the confidence that my writing could really mean something to strangers. They were enthusiastic, and enthusiasm is contagious. I looked forward to sharing more, because people really seemed to want it. In any area in life, giving to people is one of my favorite occupations, ranked above eating and sleeping many times and well worth it.

However, after that first year, it has been a downward spiral. Interest in this series has plummeted, by any measure that I have the ability to measure with. Comments would trickle in now and then, but given where it started, if this were a TV show, I would say the ratings nose-dived after the first season. To those who did reply, it meant the world, and I can't count the times your single message was the thing that kept me going, but I still wondered where everybody had gone. For two years, I have fought through, posting when I really did not look forward to it due to uncertainty of the reception, trying to imagine people out there enjoying it in silence, telling myself that I owed the list this series because of what they did for me in the initial encouragement. I have tried to convince myself of every possible explanation that could apply for the abrupt and corporate decline in response, including the decline of the show, general real life, people just being busy, etc., etc. Some of these are probably accurate for various readers. But the elephant in the room that I kept coming back to was the issue of quality. If there were dozens of people who had once received it enthusiastically and enjoyed it, and those same dozens of people had not said a word in two years on it, all stopping at almost the same point, with no other explanation for their actions given, the obvious answer is that the series had declined so far that it was only a shadow of the original, and since I think the story lines (which I'm not responsible for) have improved, the only conclusion is that the translation of those story lines from my head onto screen (which I am responsible for) has failed. I've spent two years talking myself out of this, telling myself that other reasons must exist, but I've finally hit the point where I simply can't do it anymore. I can't continue like this, because I am no longer convinced that I am keeping my vow to not contribute literary garbage to the dumps of the world. And if it is garbage, that is a personal failure of me, not of the story.

I have never published anything for the reviews, and actually, my favorite kind of feedback to get on anything is that which comes without words. In singing, which I do quasi-professionally, I can read the audience while I'm in front of them, and I know in real-time whether the song reaches them or not. If it does, I'm perfectly happy. I don't care whether they say anything to me afterwards, or clap, or do anything. I want the knowledge that it made a difference, that a life was touched. If I have that, I couldn't care less how many or what compliments on me were received. In fact, I'd much rather have comment on the song ("I love that song so much") than on my voice. A few weeks ago, I had a wonderful piece of feedback from a mentally retarded woman after a solo I had done. I have no idea what she said. It was completely unintelligible. But the music touched her. Knowing that it touched her, and that I had "translated" it and conveyed it truly, not getting in the way, made my day. I have a couple of treasured times had an opportunity to present my writing anonymously to a group, with no possible way for them to know it was mine, and be physically present to watch them receive it. Their expressions, the "vibes" from them, read as easily as with the audience to the music, told their own tale. This was the purest feedback imaginable, not to me but to the story on its own, and I knew that it reached them. And knowing that, I honestly didn't care if they knew I had written it, and I didn't enlighten them afterwards. I really don't care what people think of me, but I care intensely whether a story meant anything to them. It is impact that I want. To touch a life, somehow to make one day brighter for someone.

Unfortunately, in the fanfic medium, I can't physically be present to watch you read it. While it isn't the words in return I want, the words in return are the only indicator of your thoughts that I have. By the way, the immediate and largest conclusion being personal failure of the author isn't specific to me. I've talked to many fanfic writers off list and even read many real life writers say much the same. The first worry most have in response to silence is "wasn't it good enough? Did I fail in this?" To give your writing to someone is to strip your soul naked in front of a stranger, and yes, most authors are incredibly sensitive about their works. Writing reminds me of a quote by William Butler Yeats: "I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

I understand real life, and I understand being busy. I work 64 hours a week at various jobs, plus time with my horses, plus assisting my aging mother, plus at a minimum 6 hours a week of musical rehearsal with various groups, and the music can get up to 15 hours a week right before a concert. The jobs I'm doing have changed, but my whole time in fanfic, anything I've written down for you or anything I've read and given reviews on has been fit into a similar schedule. So I do understand being busy, and real life is certainly more important than fanfic. I've never expected everybody to comment or even the same people to always comment on every chapter. But just once in a while, I, and the other writers, need to know what you are thinking. If only a few people who once were enthusiastic had drifted off for a while, I would think they were busy or dealing with RL. When dozens of people apparently all get busy simultaneously and stay busy for two years, it's less easy to tell myself that my writing isn't the problem. Don't make up things. I've had absolutely scathing reviews on FS from two people, claws out and ripping. They at least told me what they were thinking, even if I disagreed. Right now, I need to know what people were thinking for the last few years. I know it won't come from all readers, of course, but at least some If the decline of the show has killed your interest in and enthusiasm for fanfic, say that. I haven't watched CSIM myself since partway through S3, and I think the series has progressively been flushed down the toilet. I can separate that from fanfic in my mind, but if you can't compartmentalize them like that, that's fine. I wouldn't interpret that as a personal failure on my part to convey the work adequately. Have you been busy? One line once a year would have said volumes. Are you simply tired of the series and want something else? Say so. You never know, my muse might decide to go to something else. I'm rattled enough at this point that I can't imagine trying something new based on CSIM, but she is a whimsical and temperamental muse, and I have no control over her. She sometimes listens to others more than she listens to me. Is my writing in fact only a shadow of as good as in the early stories, so that the updates mean nothing anymore? Tell me that. Believe me, your review cannot be as harsh or insensitive as the reviews my imagination has supplied me with to fill the silence. I'd rather know than be left wondering.

The bottom line is, do people still have any interest in this series? Does it still reach you? I honestly don't know anymore, and without knowing, I can't continue posting it. So while there are more stories, at least two after Echoes, I'm not sure how much more will be made public. Don't lie to me, but please, at least a few of you, tell me what you have been thinking. If the stories are still reaching people, it would be my pleasure to continue giving them. If they don't mean anything anymore to you, there's no point in continuing to make them public. I still enjoy them myself, but I can enjoy them without inflicting them on you.

One final plea. Don't do anything just for me. I know there are many other authors out there who are also stuck on the "have I failed?" question because the reception just doesn't seem to be there. That may be a misconception, but it's the first one any author will jump to. Be honest, but if a work touches you, at least once in a while, tell the writer so. One sentence will mean immeasurably more than you could imagine. Even published writers in real life have not outgrown sensitivity on their works. You can write any author in care of the publisher, and I'll bet you'd make someone's day. I've never done it without getting a response eventually from the writer. Even with the added indicator of sales (people don't spend money on what means nothing to them), for these authors to hear from one person that a work touched that reader, in whatever way, is priceless. At least once in your life, write to your favorite living published author. People write to actors all the time; why not authors? If anyone is going to reply to me, please, also try to send something to another author whose work has honestly reached you somehow, and let that person know. Even if it's an inactive writer or another fandom. Somewhere, you have read things you liked, or you wouldn't be on a fanfic list. So please, as you are reading, not always but now and then, let the writers know you are there. Authors aren't mindreaders, and collective silence is almost never interpreted neutrally or positively.

Here, then, is one more chapter of Echoes. If you really want to read more of this story and series, I would be glad to give it to you. And if you think it's time to draw the curtain, tell me that, too. Whatever you are and have been thinking about the writing, I need to know.

(H/C)

"A needle is much simpler to find in a haystack than in a bin of other needles."

Colin Watson

(H/C)

Horatio and Dawson stood side by side, looking down at the body. The woman lay on her side, her eyes wide open, fists still clenched against the approach of death. She had fought her slayer.

"Her hair has been cut," Horatio noted, nodding to the jagged black ends. Cut abruptly, crudely, as if with one swipe of giant shears, and carried away as a grisly souvenier.

"I don't get it," Dawson said, sounded offended at the killer's illogical process. "I can't think of a single murder that fits this set-up."

Horatio turned to him, letting some of the frustration of the chase show in the steel of his voice. "I can."

Dawson, still studying the body, didn't catch the danger signals. "Really? Which one?"

"This one." Horatio turned to Speed, who had come up from the Hummer with the field kit. "Go ahead and get pictures. You know what to do."

"Right, H." Speed pushed between them without a word to Dawson and knelt beside the body, focusing for a close-up.

"But why would he switch to a non-historical method?" Dawson was still stuck sifting through great unsolved cases.

"Maybe you're missing one. Or maybe he didn't. It could be a different murderer entirely."

The light dawned. "Linkage blindness, you mean. The tendency to attribute everything to a serial killer, even crimes he didn't commit. They still argue over the exact score for the Zodiac or even Jack the Ripper, for instance."

"Dawson." Horatio cut him off in mid speech.

"Yes, sir?"

"Shut up." Without another glance at the young officer, he turned to the scene, walking the perimeter slowly, eyes missing nothing.

Calleigh wasn't quite ready to give up. "She was a person, too, you know," she insisted. "She lived, loved, had fears. She deserves an investigation, even if she isn't a living page from history."

"Sorry." Dawson really did sound contrite. "I just get caught up in the case, I guess."

"Then stop long enough to see the people." Calleigh crossed over to join Horatio. "I'll bet I can get tool marks from the cut hair. Maybe not from one individual hair, because it's so small compared to the tool, but if we put them as a group, one collective slash, it's worth a try if the blade has any wear or chinks."

"Nice thinking," Horatio said. "She was shot nearly point blank while the perp held her down, so cutting the hair was just out of spite. Makes me wonder if it was another woman or an ex-lover. Taking the source of her beauty, symbolically, anyway."

"Could be." Calleigh unconsciously tossed her own hair back, reassuring herself with its weight. She looked over at Dawson, who had walked several feet away and was inspecting the bushes bordering the alley they were in. "I'm still trying to decide what to make of him."

"Me, too." Horatio looked at her, tilting his head. "What do you think so far?"

"I don't really think he's guilty. But he's something . . . I don't know."

Horatio nodded. "Exactly. He needs to develop more feeling for people as an officer, but he could just be a history fanatic. Fanatics on anything get hyperfocused. You know, it's maddening, Cal, but I still feel like I've got the key to this whole case already. I just don't recognize it."

"You're ahead of me, then. Back to this woman, I'll check the bullet after Alexx gets it. Between that and the tool marks from the scissors or whatever he used, I think we've got a good chance on this one."

"H." Speed had been photographing the woman's clenched fists. "She got some hair. She fought him."

"Nice work," Horatio said just as Dawson called them.

"Lieutenant, I think he dragged her through the bushes here." They hurried to the spot, studying the damaged foilage. "The warehouse is all along the other side, and he wouldn't want to come down the long alley from the ends. Too exposed. So I thought he might have dragged the body through the hedge."

Horatio leaned forward and captured a piece of torn cloth with his delicate, gloved fingers. "Good work," he said. "You might make a good detective some day."

Dawson looked down at the ground. "Sorry about earlier."

Horatio nodded. "Remember it, Dawson. They're all people. Even the ones you don't think are as interesting."

"So this isn't our serial killer," Speed concluded.

"No," Horatio agreed. "Just another everyday murder in Miami. Too many criminals in this city. Let's work on getting this one off the streets."

(H/C)

The case was almost ridiculously easy. Ballistics gave them nothing in the database, but the hair from the woman's fists did bring up a match, a man who had served two years for rape six years earlier. He was found in his apartment and denied everything, even denying the presence of the cut-off hair in his trash can and the garden shears and blood stains in his car trunk. The Dear John letter in his nightstand made his motive clear. She hadn't thought he deserved her. She had been right.

Later that afternoon, Calleigh had finished filling out the report on the matching tool marks and headed upstairs to Horatio's office. He was staring at an open letter from the afternoon interdepartmental mail, and his intense concentration stopped her abruptly in the doorway almost like a physical blow. "What is it, Horatio?"

He held out the letter to her, keeping it in his gloved fingers but allowing her to read it. She carefully kept her hands at her sides.

The letter was printed in block letters. At the top, it started with a mocking salutation.

"Lieutenant Horatio Caine

Counterfeit Detective

Just wait. The final reviews are not in. Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.

An Artist in Death."

"Interdepartmental mail," Calleigh noted. "Maybe somebody saw him putting it in. It's a long-shot, but . . ."

"I've already called the mailroom. They're going to ask around each department with an out-box, but you're right, it is a long shot. I've also called for Dawson."

"Why the block letters? We already have his handwriting."

Horatio looked up at her in approval. "That's an excellent question. Either he was feeling the need to be especially superior and sneaky at the moment, or it isn't from the same man and he didn't want us to know that. Ah, Dawson. What do you make of this?" He held it out. "Don't touch. We're going to send it for prints."

Dawson read it silently. "Macbeth," he said.

"Right."

"What?" Calleigh hated feeling left behind.

"The quotation at the end. 'Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.' It's from Macbeth."

"Right when he's planning his master crime. Dad loved that play. He read it all the time." Dawson straightened his shoulders and visibly reached back into his memory. "'Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.' I'd say he's telling us he's still working up to his masterpiece. The opening, of course, is a direct reply to you at the press conference."

"Where have you been this afternoon?" Calleigh asked suddenly. "You didn't go with us to serve the warrant."

"I was at my desk, doing paperwork. And no, I'm not including this as paperwork. You want my prints?"

"Let's see if we have any here to match them to, first." Horatio put the letter down on the desk and focused completely on Dawson. "What do you think is going to happen? You've been amazingly accurate, so far."

"Pure luck," Dawson insisted. "Obviously, he's a fan of historical crime, as am I. However, my feeling is still that the Wallace case is the most likely one to be used as a capstone for a historical serial killer. I was thinking, one element of that case might give us a chance to prevent it, or at least make it more difficult. Wallace was an insurance salesman, and the murderer lured him away from home on a Tuesday night by calling to his club the night before and leaving him a fake message about someone wanting a new insurance policy. We could put the word out among insurance people to be on guard against vague messages at odd hours that call them away from home."

Horatio's eyes sharpened. "That, Dawson, is one of the best ideas you've had all day. Cal, Dawson, look up associations of insurance people and ask them to get the warning out. Meanwhile, I'll run this note down to Speed." As always, his progress from the desk to office door was so smooth and graceful that his speed was startling. He stopped at the door and turned back to face them. "Nice work. For once in this case, we just might be ahead of him."

(H/C)

Home was a solace, an island of peace in the turbulent sea of Miami. Calleigh set down Rosalind as Horatio shut the door behind them, and they both took a deep breath and relaxed briefly. Rosalind scampered off up the hall, and Horatio and Calleigh melted into each other in a long embrace. After the demands of the day, they could finally rest.

The cause of the peace struck them both simultaneously. "Jean isn't here," Horatio said, and Calleigh at the same instant stated, "Mother's gone." They eyed each other, caught between relief and uneasiness about what she might be up to.

Rosalind came happily back from a search of the house. "No Gramma," she said with satisfaction. "Just us." She flopped down in the living room floor to pet the cat.

"She was meeting some friends from the travel club at lunch, she said. Maybe they all went to Australia together. I'll start cooking." Calleigh headed for the kitchen, and Horatio automatically followed her.

"I'll help, not that you need it."

Rosalind looked up from the floor. "Play the piano?"

"Go ahead," Calleigh urged him. "We haven't had any music in days." Not since Mother got here, she thought.

Horatio scooped up Rosalind and twirled her through the air, making a flying, swooping approach to the piano bench. "Great idea, Angel." He sat down, and Rosalind settled contentedly in his lap. Calleigh, in the kitchen, let her soul lean into the music as it washed the stress of the day away. They would solve the case, and they would find things to occupy her mother, and everything would be okay. How could it not be okay when the three of them had each other?

Jean crashed through the door and into the moment like a jet plane landing in a calm pasture. "Oh, Horatio, I'm SO glad you're here. I've got to tell you all about today. Come here, Rosalind. Quit squirming now."

Rosalind pulled away from Jean's entwining arms. "Play more, Dada."

"He can play anytime, darling, and I've had the most wonderful day."

Horatio rescued Rosalind and sat back down. "Let me finish the piece for her, Jean. I hate leaving one hanging." He resumed playing, but Rosalind was no longer relaxed against him, and Jean, ignoring the music, prattled happily on.

"I met some people from that travel club last night, and we went to the nicest restaurant. It was Mexican, and one of the people had actually been to Mexico. She had pictures, and then one of the others brought out his pictures from Spain, and we passed those all around, too. It's so exciting. They've been everywhere, I think." She stopped for breath, and Horatio, giving up, resolved the chord and turned around on the piano bench to face her. Rosalind in his lap was absolutely still, but her eyes were wary and were far older than her two-and-a-half years.

Calleigh reluctantly entered the conversation, although she was tempted to hide in the kitchen, perhaps joining Hope, who had already taken refuge behind the refrigerator. "Mother, Horatio, Rosalind, supper is ready."

"Oh, good, I'm absolutely famished. We talked all afternoon, and then we went to one of their houses, and there were slides. Slides from all over the world. It was so exciting." Jean rambled on happily as the other three ate in silence. "And finally," she concluded at length, "they passed around pictures of their grandkids, too, and everybody else there had so many grandchildren. I only had one. Horatio, when are you and Calleigh going to have another child?"

Rosalind dropped her spill-proof cup. Calleigh retrieved it from the floor and handed it back to her. "Well, Mother, we don't really know."

Jean appealed directly to her granddaughter. "Rosalind, honey, wouldn't you like a baby brother or sister to play with?"

"NO!!!" The vehemence of Rosalind's reply shocked even Jean into silence. "No. Never. No." Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over. Rosalind hardly ever cried – Alexx had often called her the quietest baby she had ever known – but suddenly, she was now.

Calleigh picked Rosalind up out of her chair, cuddling her, stroking her hair. "It's okay, Rosalind." Horatio was almost immediately around the table to help her, the whole family in one chair, and Rosalind clung to both of them, burying her face, sobs still shaking her small frame.

Jean shook her head knowingly. "Now, Rosalind, you mustn't be selfish. You can share them with a little brother or sister. You'd like it, once the baby was here." Rosalind clung more tightly to her parents and didn't reply. Horatio and Calleigh exchanged a look of concerned bewilderment across her head. Neither of them had ever seen their daughter this upset.

Jean switched her audience. "You know, all kids are self-centered, but she'd like it, I'm sure. Besides, you really owe me more than one grandchild. So are you pregnant now?"

"No, I'm not," Calleigh stated firmly. "And Mother . . ."

"Well, what are you waiting for? You two aren't having problems again, are you?"

The phone rang right at that moment, interrupting Calleigh's thoughts of murder. She shifted their sobbing daughter to Horatio and extricated herself to answer it. "Hello. Yes, she is. Just a minute." With relief, she turned to Jean. "Mother, it's for you."

"For me?" All of Jean's attention was diverted suddenly, like a child. She popped up and took the phone from Calleigh. "Hello? Oh, yes, I did. Really? I'd love to hear about it." She lowered the receiver for a minute, covering it with her hand. "Would you two mind if I took the phone into the guest room?"

"Not at all," they replied in relieved unison, and Jean disappeared with the cordless receiver, shutting the door firmly behind her.

The minute she was gone, Horatio tried to pry Rosalind away a bit, so he could see her face. "Rosalind? Rosalind, Angel, what's the matter?" She only whimpered and clung more tightly to him.

Calleigh joined Horatio again in the kitchen chair and pulled Rosalind over halfway onto her. "Rosalind, don't let Gramma get you so upset. She's not worth it. She's gone now." Her efforts at comfort didn't get any further than Horatio's. Totally confused, they simply held her, and gradually, like a wind-up toy, her sobs ran down.

Horatio patted her soothingly on the back. "It's okay, Angel. It's okay. I promise." Oddly, that seemed to be the first thing that really reached her. She pulled away a bit, and Calleigh wiped the last tears from her eyes.

"No kids?"

"No kids," Calleigh replied. "We're perfectly happy with the three of us." She was still wondering why on earth the thought of siblings should upset Rosalind so much.

Horatio looked squarely at their daughter, his voice absolutely sincere, as if addressing an adult. "Rosalind, your mother and I aren't planning to ever have more kids. We've talked about it before and decided against it."

She looked up at him, hope lighting her tear-streaked face. "Promise you won't?" she asked.

Horatio looked over at Calleigh, the same thought in both of their minds. Birth control isn't 100 percent. He hesitated. He hesitated too long, and his daughter was as perceptive as her parents. Her shoulders slumped, and even though there were no tears left, the pain in her face cut both of her parents to the core. "Probably not," he finished lamely, and she took no comfort from it. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his chest again, clinging to him as a drowning person would clutch a life preserver.

Calleigh tried again. "Rosalind, why does that bother you so much?" Rosalind shook her head and hugged Horatio more tightly. "It probably won't happen, you know. We're doing our best so that it won't. We don't want anybody except you." Rosalind wasn't talking, and in spite of her parents' extended efforts, they could get nothing from her for the next half hour.

Finally, they gave up and took her back to the nursery to get her ready for bed. After her sleeper was on, Horatio sat down in the rocking chair, holding both arms out. "I want to hold both of my girls tonight," he said, with a shallow effort at a smile, and Calleigh sat in his lap with Rosalind on top of both of them. Calleigh started humming as Horatio rocked soothingly, and finally, after much longer than usual, Rosalind was asleep. With infinite care, Calleigh stood with Rosalind still in her arms and tucked her into the crib. She pulled a light blanket up over her as Horatio pushed her stuffed horse against her side and curled Rosalind's arm around it.

When they exited the nursery, the house was silent. Jean's door was still closed, but there was no light and no voice from it. She must have finished her phone conversation and, worn out with the excitement of the day, gone to bed. It was surprisingly late, already long dark. Rosalind had taken up a large chunk of their evening.

Once they were both ready for bed, they lay next to each other, on their backs but touching, and finally, they could talk. "What on earth do you think brought that on?" Calleigh asked.

Horatio shook his head, and she felt the movement in the darkness. "I have no idea. It isn't just not wanting to share us. Rosalind doesn't have a selfish bone in her body."

"She was really upset, though. I'd like to strangle Mother, but I don't know why it would have bothered Rosalind like that."

Horatio stared into the ceiling in the darkness, looking for the answer there. "And then she just wouldn't talk to us. That surprised me."

Calleigh abruptly chuckled. "It shouldn't. She is your daughter. Your first reaction to any hurt is to internalize it and say nothing."

He smiled, seeing the humor in it. "And yours." It was her turn to grin. Instantly, though, they were both serious again. "But if it isn't selfishness and not wanting to share us, why would she object to more kids?"

Calleigh sighed. "I don't know. It isn't like her. She's not the most sociable kid I've seen, but she plays well enough with others once she gets to know them. She has friends her age at daycare."

"It doesn't make sense," Horatio agreed. "But it has to, somehow. I've never seen her that worked up over anything."

"Neither have I," Calleigh agreed. "The only thing we can do until she decides to talk to us is just to keep reassuring her we're happy as a family of three. Horatio?"

"Mm hmm?"

"Let's take a vacation, all three of us. Get totally away from everything. Once this case is over and Mother is dealt with, I mean. Let's go off a hundred miles from anywhere and just be together."

"Sounds delightful. We'll tell Rosalind that tomorrow. It'll give her something to look forward to."

"And us," Calleigh said, but her mind, like his, wasn't as much on leaving Jean and problems behind as on quality time spent with her daughter, reassuring her of their love. They talked a while longer after that, but sleep finally came to them, restlessly. Rosalind's cries haunted their dreams. And then suddenly, it wasn't a dream.

Calleigh, being on the closer side of the bed to the door, made it across the hall first, but Horatio was right on her heels. Rosalind was asleep in her crib but fighting something, her arms flailing, her voice raised in a wail. Calleigh grabbed her daughter, hugging her tightly. "Rosalind! Rosalind, wake up, Angel. It's just a dream."

Rosalind opened her eyes, recognizing her mother in the dim glow from the nightlight. "Where's Dada?" she sobbed.

"Right here." Horatio came around Calleigh, and the family joined in a three-cornered hug. Rosalind slowly stopped crying, but she didn't want to let them go. "Would you like to sleep with us the rest of the night, Angel?" Horatio asked, and Rosalind nodded.

Back across the hall they went – Jean had obviously not been disturbed at all; her snores could be heard even through the closed door. Horatio lay back down in bed, and Calleigh put Rosalind in next to him, then climbed in herself, sandwiching their daughter, who didn't seem to mind at all. Rosalind was still clinging to Horatio, although she wasn't crying now. He tried one more time. "Rosalind, what's wrong?" She shook her head and buried herself against him.

"What were you dreaming about?" Calleigh asked. "Do you want to tell us? It might make it go away." Another head shake, just as vigorous. They left her alone then, just holding her, and slowly, almost reluctantly, she slid away again into sleep. Her parents lay there as wakeful sentinels long into the night, but this time, sheltered between them, Rosalind slept, though uneasily, throughout the night.

Deep night fell on Miami but without accompanying calm, and across the city, there were many, both awake and restlessly asleep, whose thoughts chased each other in circles throughout the hours of darkness.

He still doesn't know. How blind can he be? It's right in front of his nose, the whole time, and he still doesn't see who he's up against.

Why should that bother her so?

Which one next? That's the question. Careful selection now. It has to be careful selection for the masterpiece.

Pain. Pure, unquenchable pain.

What am I going to do about it?

That one. It has to be that one. It's the only logical next step.

Just to get away from it all. Maybe that would help.

He's an idiot. How does someone that oblivious get on the force? He'll know me soon enough. In fact, he already does.

I have to do something. But what?

People scattered across the city, all in bed, their thoughts hidden by the veil of their faces, all waiting for the next day.

To be continued, if you want more.


	9. Chapter 9

Echoes of the Past, Chapter 9

A/N: Thank you to everyone. And for the surprisingly many who said they had thought that their own individual voices wouldn't matter to an author and might not even be read, don't sell yourself short. You cannot imagine how much an author values response from readers, even a published author, even a award-winning author. I've never written to a published author yet without getting a heartfelt response and gratitude for checking in, even if it took a few months for the message to get there. The author who cares nothing at all about the readers is an author that I, for one, don't want to waste time reading, even if that author is a multimillion best seller. The readers, to me, are the only point in sharing stories. If it were purely for me, I could enjoy it equally well in my head without taking the time to write it down.

My computer has come home this week, and hopefully things won't be quite as hit and miss from here on. This chapter was written down in one session on my own computer. That hasn't happened in months.

On to Echoes. The pace of the story picks up from here on in regard to all three main problems needing to be solved.

(H/C)

"The house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defense against injury and violence as for his repose."

Sir Edward Coke

(H/C)

The bird's song woke Calleigh, not through volume but through sheer incongruity. What was a bird doing singing? Didn't it realize how difficult the world was making itself for her family at the moment? She opened her eyes to see the early morning light finding its way between the curtains, determined like the bird, like her mother, and like everything else these days to not leave them alone. She was still facing Horatio, with Rosalind protected firmly between them, and she studied their faces so close together. Both looked tired, and both even in sleep had a worried furrow creasing the forehead. It had once been usual for Horatio, gradually less so over the years of their relationship as his soul unfolded and stretched out to absorb the sun of their shared love. It had never been usual for Rosalind. One of Horatio's arms was curled around his daughter, and her much smaller hand grasped one finger tightly, holding him as a lifeline as she had finally succumbed to sleep.

They were so much alike, Calleigh thought. Rosalind might have her hair, but so much of her personality was Horatio. A crease appeared on her own forehead as she grasped that thought. So much alike. Maybe that perspective would help her understand what was going on. Suppose that a very young Horatio were extremely upset at the prospect of having siblings, why would it bother him? Her mind answered immediately and in one word. Responsibility. Horatio would feel responsible for his siblings, even as he had for Ray. Maybe Rosalind didn't feel capable of being an adequate big sister if any other children came along. Calleigh's mind gnawed at that thought thoroughly, but even though it made some sense, it still didn't quite seem to fit. Rosalind's reaction had been so sudden and extreme. She never reacted like that, no more than Horatio did. A young Horatio would have gone to his room and fretted over the matter privately for months before his mother finally dragged it out of him. He never would have collapsed into hysterical tears at the table and in front of a stranger (her mother could easily fit that category). No, Rosalind, like Horatio, tended to keep things to herself and think over them, and when she did speak up, it was usually later, like her question to Calleigh about why Jean was the way she was. Only two and a half or not, she was a quiet thinker, and she had been since she had come home from the hospital as an infant. What on earth could make her flip completely out of control like that? Calleigh tried to put Horatio in that situation again, but it just didn't fit. She couldn't imagine him reacting like that. She couldn't have imagined Rosalind reacting like that unless she'd seen it herself.

The annoyingly cheerful bird continued singing outside, and Calleigh resigned herself to the day. She wasn't accomplishing anything lying here trying to think her way through a maze. Might as well get on up and take a shower. She surreptitiously crept out of bed, but neither Rosalind nor Horatio stirred. She switched the alarm clock off so it wouldn't wake them in five minutes and tiptoed to the bathroom. Jean's raucous snores from the guest room reached her ears as soon as she opened her own bedroom door, reminding her that Rosalind wasn't their only problem, though she was certainly the most important at the moment. What on earth would they do with Jean? How much longer could she stand having her here? On the other hand, how do you kick your own mother out? Calleigh felt a surge of resentment, remembering that Jean had been the one to set off Rosalind last night. For a moment, she thought of physically dragging her mother out of bed, shoving her out the door before she had woken up thoroughly, and locking it behind her. Unbidden, the image of Jo Anne rose again, the flaming child running in panic, Jean chasing her frantically with the rest of them. Anger collapsed into pity. How on earth could you want to strangle someone and also feel sorry for them at the same time?

Calleigh slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the hot water beat down on her. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe she would open the door onto a different world, or rather, onto the old world. Was it just last Sunday that she had stood in her own kitchen marveling at how perfect her life was? She thought of Peter and Becky, out on their cruise. "Be glad you aren't here," she said, and there wasn't a trace of resentment against her brother in the words, just a wish that she, Horatio, and Rosalind could have gone with them.

The world outside the bathroom door hadn't changed. Jean was still snoring, oblivious to her surroundings. Rosalind and Horatio were still asleep. She hated to wake either of them, but it was getting late. She had spent more time in the shower than she'd meant to.

She bent over and kissed Horatio lightly on the forehead. He stirred slightly. "Mmmm," he murmured without opening his eyes. Reality and memory hit a second later, and the lids snapped open. He immediately looked over to Rosalind, then back to Calleigh.

"At least she slept the rest of the night, sort of," Calleigh said.

"Have you thought of anything?" His eyes, meeting hers, were hopeful. She hated disappointing him.

"Not anything that's enough to explain it."

Typically, his disappointment was with himself. "Me, either. I thought about it half the night, but I couldn't get anywhere at all. I've never seen her like that."

Calleigh nodded. "I know. I hate to say it, Horatio, but we do have to get to work." He jumped slightly. He had actually forgotten about work. "You'd better take a shower. Let's let her sleep as long as she can."

With catlike grace, he extricated himself from Rosalind's grasp and oozed out of bed, accomplishing the entire operation without a sound. He quickly grabbed clothes and headed for the shower, and Calleigh crossed to the chest, rummaging for her own clean clothes. She'd forgotten to take them with her earlier and was just wearing her robe. Behind her, Rosalind stirred. Calleigh reached over and stroked her arm lightly, but Rosalind twisted, still not fully awake, reaching behind her with the hand that had held Horatio's finger. The hand found the empty bed, and her eyes snapped open as she woke up all at once. "Good morning, Angel," Calleigh said, picking her up quickly and giving her a tight hug.

Rosalind turned her head, looking around. "Where's Dada?"

"He's taking a shower, Rosalind." She settled into her mother's arms, but she was still tense. Calleigh hugged her tightly, wishing she could hug whatever pain this was away, and Rosalind slowly responded, returning the embrace. "Rosalind," Calleigh said after a minute, "Daddy and I have decided that we're all going to take a vacation in a few weeks. Just the three of us, go off somewhere totally by ourselves. Gramma won't come."

Rosalind tilted her head, again reminding Calleigh of her father. "No kids?"

"No, no kids. Just the three of us. I told you, we don't want any more kids. We don't want anything except you." She hugged her again. "Would you like that? A vacation with just the three of us?"

"Yes," she replied, but there was no enthusiasm in it.

The bedroom door opened, and Horatio returned. "Good morning, Angel."

"Morning, Dada!" Rosalind twisted around in Calleigh's arms, nearly falling, and Horatio's strong grasp was there. He caught her up and gave her a hug so hard Calleigh wondered if he was hurting her, but Rosalind didn't complain.

"I was just telling her about the trip," Calleigh said.

"Right, just the three of us. Nobody else." He kissed her, then set her on the bed. "Just as soon as this case is finished and Jean is dealt with, we'll go off by ourselves. Now, though, I'm afraid we've got to work today. Let's get you ready for daycare."

"No," Rosalind said. It was a flat, absolute refusal.

Calleigh sighed. "Rosalind, we have to go to work. You know that. And you like daycare." Her daughter was taking on her stubborn look, one that Horatio always said reminded him of Calleigh's similar expression, but the look in the eyes was nearer panic than stubbornness. Rosalind was fighting not to lose control again, and both of her parents could see it.

Horatio sat down beside her on the bed. "Rosalind, we have to take you to daycare, but we'll be back for you tonight. It's just for the day, just as usual."

Rosalind considered this for a moment. "No kids?" she said softly.

Horatio was too worried to be amused at her innocence. "Rosalind, I absolutely promise you, your mother and I are not going to have any more kids today."

She studied him, then climbed into his lap and gave him a hug. "Okay," she said, resigned.

He hugged her back, while holding a silent conversation with Calleigh over her head. They were both still absolutely mystified. Finally, Horatio stood up, still holding Rosalind. "Come on, Angel. I'll get you dressed and ready for the day while your mother finishes dressing." They headed for the bathroom, and Calleigh wasted a good five minutes staring at the wall, looking for answers. It didn't provide any.

She was just coming out of the bedroom, ready for the day now, when the guest room opened and Jean emerged. "Oh, Calleigh, good morning! Have you thought anymore about what I said last night? Oh, I just can't wait for more grandchildren." The bathroom door, right across the hall, was eloquently silent, but Calleigh knew that Horatio couldn't have helped hearing, nor could Rosalind.

Suddenly briskly efficient, she knocked sharply on the bathroom door. "Come on, Horatio, we need to go. I'm sorry, Mother, but we've got to get in early. We were just leaving. I'll see you tonight, okay?" The bathroom door opened, and Horatio emerged, holding Rosalind. Calleigh grasped him by an arm and marched him to the front door, scooping up her purse, badge, and gun, as well as his badge and gun, in a quick grab on the way by the desk. "Bye, Mother." She pushed them out onto the sidewalk and made herself shut – not slam – the front door.

Outside the house, the three of them looked at each other. Rosalind still looked upset, but at least she wasn't crying again. "Come on," Calleigh said. "We're going to McDonald's for breakfast. Want pancakes, Rosalind?" It was her favorite.

"Okay," she said lifelessly.

Horatio gave her a squeeze. "No kids today, Rosalind. Not for a long, long time, and probably never. I promise."

She relaxed a little and hugged him back, and Calleigh joined in a three-part embrace on their front porch, wondering what on earth was happening with their daughter.

(H/C)

Alexx had arrived just ahead of them at CSI, and they waited together for the elevator from the parking garage. "Morning, Alexx," Horatio said, business as usual, and Calleigh echoed it.

"Good morning." The ME swept them with a quick, efficient look and reached her diagnosis immediately. "Did either of you get any sleep at all last night?"

"Yes," they replied in unison, and didn't elaborate. Alexx sighed.

"You two make a great pair, you know it? How much sleep did you get?"

"At least two hours," Calleigh admitted.

"Was it Jean or the case you were worrying about?"

Their stonewall front collapsed together. "Rosalind."

"Rosalind?" Alexx felt a flood of concern herself. "What's wrong with Rosalind?"

The elevator arrived just then, and they entered it. Alexx hit the button, holding it still. "What's wrong with Rosalind?" she insisted.

Horatio shook his head helplessly, an expression she hardly ever saw on him. "We have no idea."

"Mother asked me last night when we were going to have more kids," Calleigh explained. "And Rosalind . . ." She trailed off, looking for adequate words for it.

Horatio picked up the story. "Rosalind burst out crying and was absolutely panicked. I've never seen her that upset in my life."

Alexx stared. "Rosalind? Just broke down in front of Jean like that?"

"Broke down isn't strong enough," Calleigh said. "Horatio's right; I've never seen her like that. She was scared some after that car accident, but that was understandable. And she was a lot more upset last night, even so."

"Just from the thought of you having other children?"

"Right. And this morning, we had to reassure her two or three times that we weren't going to have any more kids today before she'd stay at daycare."

Alexx shook her head. "This is Rosalind we're talking about?"

"Right. But she wouldn't talk to us, Alexx. She wouldn't tell us why it bothered her."

Alexx gave a worried smile. "That's the first thing you've said that really sounds like her. She doesn't talk when something's bothering her. She just keeps it in and thinks over it awhile."

"She doesn't totally break down in a crying fit, either," Horatio said. "We tried to tell her we didn't want any more kids, but then she asked me to promise that we'd never have any. And. . ."

"You couldn't say 100 percent." Alexx shook her head. "Poor little angel. But why would it bother her so?"

"I don't know. Have you ever seen her really get upset, Alexx?"

"No. Not like that. Even the one time I thought something was really bothering her, she was quiet and closed down about it, and the next day, she seemed fine."

"The next day?" Calleigh analyzed that statement. "You mean when you were keeping her overnight once?"

"Yes. Back a few months ago, when you two went to that conference upstate. I kept her three days. Remember?" They nodded in unison. "The first night, Speed and Breeze came over for dinner, and after dinner, we were all talking, and Janie and Bryan were playing with Rosalind. It was Janie who got my attention, actually. She was complaining that Rosalind wasn't listening to what she wanted her to do, and Rosalind told her to just leave her alone. It's the nearest I've ever heard Rosalind come to snapping at somebody. But when I asked Rosalind if something was wrong, she said no. Absolutely locked up – she's as good at that as you are, Horatio. She just suddenly didn't want to play at all, wanted to be left to herself. I asked if she was feeling okay, and she finally said not really, but she wouldn't tell me what was hurting, and I couldn't find anything at all wrong with her. I finally just held her while we were talking and told the kids to let her be, and finally she went to sleep. Next day, she seemed perfectly fine. I never did figure out what was bothering her that night."

Horatio had been listening with tilted head, his eyes absorbing all the details. "That does sound odd. In-character odd, though. Last night was totally out of character. Could she have heard something you all said and been bothered by it?"

Alexx shrugged. "She could have, but we weren't talking about gory details of cases and such. It was just idle conversation. I tried later on to remember what all we'd talked about, and I couldn't think of anything that would have upset her. I finally decided she just had a stomachache or something.".

"Probably." Calleigh reverted to the crisis at hand. "Can you imagine why the idea of siblings would upset her that much, Alexx?"

Alexx shook her head. "She's not a selfish child, and she knows you love her. I don't know. I'll think about it. But you two had better get some rest soon, okay? It won't help Rosalind if you both collapse out on a case. You both look exhausted."

"I'm fine," they said in perfect unison. Alexx shook her head in exasperation and released the button, letting the elevator resume its journey.

(H/C)

It was about an hour later that morning when Horatio's cell phone rang, disturbing his trance. He was sitting at his desk with paperwork from the case in front of him, but his mind was on Rosalind, chasing details, looking for clues, getting nowhere. "Horatio," he said distractedly on the fourth ring.

"Wake you up from your morning nap?"

Horatio grinned. "Hardly, but have you finished yours yet, Frank?"

"Haven't had a chance," Tripp replied, and then his gruff banter slid into seriousness. "Listen, H, Dawson never came in this morning."

Horatio's attention snapped to the case so quickly that he nearly gave himself mental whiplash. "Did he call?"

"No. Tried his home and his cell. No answer."

"Has anything happened?" Had he somehow not heard a page to another murder scene?

"Not yet. Want to go check his place?"

"Meet you in the garage in five minutes." Horatio hit end, then #1 speed dial.

Calleigh answered on the fourth ring herself, sounding about as distracted as he had been. "Hi, Handsome."

"Hi. Dawson never came in today. We're going to go check on him. Do you want to come with us?"

"Try to stop me." Her tone immediately sharpened into focus. "I never have trusted him. I'll meet you at the elevator in two minutes."

Tripp was waiting when they stepped off the elevator at garage level. He handed Horatio a Post-It note. "His address."

"Remember," Horatio said as he led the way to the Hummer, "we're concerned colleagues checking on our coworker, who might have had a heart attack or something. We don't have a search warrant."

"We can certainly look around while we're checking on him, though," Calleigh said. She couldn't wait to see Dawson's house. Did he have anything there besides a true crime library? She doubted there would be a room full of evidence from the other crime scenes, but she still would be willing to bet she could spot something Dawson would have wanted to hide.

"Well, of course," Horatio replied. "We have to look around thoroughly. He might have crawled into a closet with his heart attack, after all. Just keep it admissible. We can get a warrant later if we need."

"Never liked him," Tripp grunted as the Hummer moved through the streets of Miami on its determined course. Other traffic moved aside respectfully, even though Horatio didn't switch the lights on.

"Neither have I, but that doesn't make him a murderer," Horatio commented. He shook his head. "And I did talk to his former supervisors. They were most complimentary. Everybody agreed that he was a walking computer on true crime, but he has a very good past record."

"He's involved," Calleigh insisted. "I'm sure of it."

"We'll find out soon enough." Horatio pulled the Hummer to the curb in front of a small house. "Does he rent or own, Tripp?"

"Rents," Tripp replied. They headed up the sidewalk, and Horatio rang the doorbell. It echoed inside in that forlorn way that a doorbell echoes in an empty house, knowing that no one will hear. Horatio rang it again, then knocked. He nodded at Tripp, and the detective quickly headed around the house to the back. He returned a few minutes later. "Locked. No answer."

Calleigh tried to peer through the curtain gap in the front window, but all she could see was a couch. Horatio rattled the front doorknob, then pulled out his lock pick. "I'm worried about him. We need to get in to check on him."

"Half right, anyway," Calleigh muttered.

Even Tripp seemed impatient. "Okay, H, enough for protocol. Break in." Horatio's nimble fingers worked the pick skillfully, and the lock released with a click. He pulled out Latex gloves and put them on, handing Tripp a spare pair. Calleigh pulled her own on. Horatio turned the knob, and the door opened.

"Dawson?" He stepped inside, calling out, following procedure to the letter. "Dawson, are you here? Are you all right?"

"He's not here," Calleigh said, sure of it. The house felt almost deserted. It might have been a furniture store. No friendliness, no feeling of being lived-in here.

Horatio gave her a crooked grin. "I agree, but we've got to put on a show for the neighbors. Dawson?" He looked around the sterile, impersonal living room. "Cal, you take the rooms to the right off the hall. I'll take the ones to the left. Tripp, take the rest of the house." They moved out.

The first room to the right off the hall was the bathroom, and Calleigh looked it over almost like she would have a crime scene, though being careful to only notice what was in the open and not dig into things. We don't have a warrant, she reminded herself. She was certain that lack would be remedied soon. The bathroom was clean in a way that she couldn't imagine for a man living alone. Towels neatly folded in the rack. Clothes neatly in the hamper, and when she opened the lid, she saw that they weren't turned inside out. She didn't dig in the hamper, but from the top, it looked amazingly neat. She touched the shower curtain and then the soap bar. Perfectly dry. She opened the cabinet under the sink. Cleaning supplies and spare toilet paper, all with almost military precision. She shook her head. Even Horatio, who was hardly a slob, hadn't had a bathroom like this before they'd met, although it wasn't a difference in neatness. It was . . . she fished for the right word. Warmth. Horatio's house had had warmth. It had memories of his parents, even if memories that haunted him at times. It had mementos. It had felt lived in. This bathroom might have been from a bus station, although clean. It was absolutely impersonal.

She stepped out and went down to the next door. The bedroom. The bed was made with perfectly even corners. Again, there were no pictures, no personal touches, no sense of humanity. The clothes were hung faultlessly in the closet. When she lifted the edge of the bedspread to look underneath the bed, there was no dust. Either Dawson didn't actually live her, or he cleaned house regularly to an extent that would make a hospital proud, or . . . her thoughts stalled. The bedroom was usually the most personal room in the house for anyone. Not Dawson.

"Cal?"

"Coming." She left the bedroom and went across the hall into what was obviously a library. Horatio was standing by a desk in the square center of the room. Bookcases lined all walls. Calleigh glanced at the nearest titles on her way to him and whistled softly. "This has to be the biggest true-crime private library in America."

"Probably. Did you find anything?"

"Nothing. It's like nobody actually lives here."

He nodded. "No pictures. No personal things. Nothing but the books. He definitely was here, though. He was doing research last night." He nodded to the desk, and she moved over. There were 11 books on the desk, stacked in utter precision, five to the right, five to the left, one open in the exact middle. Calleigh glanced at the open book.

"The biggest question of the case is not, did the murderer make the phone call, but was the phone call made by Wallace, leaving a message for himself at the chess club, or by another individual? The caller was assuredly the murderer. If it was Wallace, then obviously, he had to leave himself a message at the club instead of calling later when he was present, because he couldn't both call and be there to receive the call. But if it was the murderer, why not call back later, as indeed the club manager told him to, and speak to Wallace himself? Why not call Wallace or Mrs. Wallace at home and leave a message there instead of at the club? There can be only one answer to this. If the caller was not Wallace, then he was undoubtedly known to both Wallace and his wife, known well enough by face and voice that he could not have pretended to leave an anonymous message. Whether it was Wallace or another, Mrs. Wallace had to have known her killer."

She looked at the other books. "All on the Wallace case. 11 books just on that case. And look at the way they're stacked, Horatio. Does anybody stack books like that?" They were perfect piles, corners absolutely square, all the way through each pile of five.

"Obviously, whether he's the murderer or not, I'd say he has OCD. These books aren't even dusty."

"This whole place isn't dusty. He must clean every two days. You should see his bathroom."

"But why leave that one book open?"

She shook her head. "You're right. It's the one thing out of place I've seen here. Like he was reading it and suddenly noticed something and left in a hurry."

"But where?" He looked around the library again. "So he was researching the Wallace case last night. Assume that he's the killer. Why would he try to help us with the tip on the message yesterday that we sent out to the insurance associations? But if he isn't the killer, why wouldn't he call us if he suddenly found something important?"

Calleigh nodded. "It's like he tries to help us sometimes, and sometimes he doesn't notice they are people at all. Maybe he's schizophrenic."

"The writing didn't match," Horatio reminded her. "I had his writing on a note checked against the love letters on the first case, the Hall-Mills one. The graphologist was certain they didn't match."

"Maybe he's got multiple personality disorder," Calleigh suggested. "I think I've read that they can have totally different writing, and one personality might not even know what the other is doing."

Horatio considered it, head cocked slightly to the right. "Good theory. It fits as well as anything I've come up with yet."

"H!" Tripp's voice echoed down the hall, and they came out of the room to join him back by the front door. "Car's gone, nothing else. Find anything?"

"No," Calleigh replied.

"Just books," Horatio said. "He's got the best crime library I've ever seen. And he was definitely researching the Wallace case last night."

"Enough for a search warrant?" Tripp said, then shook his head, answering his own question.

"We can try, but I doubt it," Horatio said. "Just maybe, with a friendly judge, we could bring the team over and really take a look at this place."

"Right," Calleigh said, disgusted. She knew the procedural system enough to know that their chances of getting a search warrant were nil right now. They had what she thought was the best working theory yet on this case, but they could go no further. Dawson, wherever he was and whatever he was doing, was safely out of their reach for now. The drive back to HQ was accomplished in frustrated silence.

(H/C)

The three were right, and the judge, while sympathetic, was unyielding. Going over to check on a missing colleague had been legal, but no official search warrant for Dawson's house could be issued at the moment. Tripp stumped off in disgust to put out a casual and informal APB on Dawson's car, and Horatio and Calleigh had lunch, then got back to work. She brought her own notes on the case up to his office, and they were working together, on either side of his desk, trying to fit the multiple personality theory into the evidence.

Hours later, Horatio scanned another website on his computer. "They can definitely have different handwriting. Sometimes they know about each other, sometimes not. But it's almost always rooted in some childhood abuse, and Dawson had only praise for his father. He said he was a policeman who died in the line of duty six years ago."

"Did you verify that?" Calleigh asked.

One eyebrow twitched. "No. His previous supervisors had heard the same story, but only from him."

"He could have created an alternative reality. Some people are good at that," she sighed, thinking of her mother. "Maybe he also had something he couldn't deal with in his past, and some personality came up with this version instead."

"That, at least, we can check on. Any officer killed in the line of duty has that fact on file if we look in the right places." Horatio reached for the keyboard, and his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and immediately jumped tracks mentally. "It's daycare."

"Daycare?" Calleigh tensed up herself as Horatio hit the button.

"Horatio."

"Mr. Caine, this is Dana from daycare."

"Is Rosalind all right?"

"Well, she's okay physically, but she had a nightmare while we were having naptime. Wouldn't tell me what about, but she insisted that she wanted to talk to you."

"Okay. Put her on." There was a receiver shuffle on the other end. "Rosalind? What's the matter, Angel?"

Rosalind's voice came on the phone, still thickened with tears and the strain of holding them back. "Dada?"

"I'm here, Rosalind. What's the matter?" Silence. "Dana said you had a bad dream. Do you want to tell me about it."

"Uh uh." That was a definite refusal. "No kids?"

"Rosalind, we're not having other kids today. I promised you that, remember?"

"Yes." She sounded a little better, getting better control of herself.

"What was your dream about?" Horatio tried again. No response. He shook his head at Calleigh. "What else have you done today, Rosalind?"

"Read a book and played. Good day. Got to work?"

"I'm at work right now, but I'll always talk to you if you need to, Rosalind. Anytime, I'm here for you. It's okay."

"Okay." She sounded brighter there than at any time in the conversation so far. "Back to work. See you tonight."

"Are you okay, Rosalind?"

"Yes. See you tonight."

"I love you, Angel."

"I love you," she repeated. "Bye, Dada."

"Bye." He waited to be sure she had hung up before he hit the button.

"Nightmare again?" Calleigh said.

He nodded. "I don't understand it."

"I was trying this morning to figure out why it would bother you." He looked at her, startled. "I mean, if you were a little kid. She's so much like you, Horatio. If you were really upset about maybe having siblings, I thought it would be because of the responsibility."

"Raymond," he said. "Nail on the head, Cal."

"Right. But her reaction still seems extreme."

"That it does. She doesn't just react emotionally like that. She thinks things out first." He shook his head. "Well, you're making more progress on figuring out Rosalind's problem than I am. I'm totally stuck. Keep working on it, and maybe you'll solve it. You always were a good detective."

The cell phone rang, and Horatio glanced at it. Tripp. "Horatio."

"H, we've got another murder. Man just came home and found his wife dead. Three guesses what his name is."

He only needed one. "Wallace."

"Right. Meet you there." Tripp gave the address and hung up. Horatio stood. "The Wallace case has apparently just been recreated in Miami."

Calleigh stood to join him. "And I'll bet anything that the name of the murderer is Dawson."


	10. Chapter 10

Echoes of the Past, chapter 10.

A/N: To save you digging through either your S1 episodes or my fic on a scavenger hunt, I'll tell you that you won't find the scene referred to in this chapter where Calleigh angrily confronted Speed in Losing Face after his cosmically-inappropriate joke to Horatio immediately after Al's death. This is actually from the first CSIM fic I ever wrote, but I never wrote it down, so it hasn't seen light of day. I had just joined my first fic group (not the H/C list), but when I commented right after joining while discussing favorite episodes that I thought Speed had been insensitive to put it mildly in that episode, defenders of St. Rory rose up in wrath and blasted me for daring to imply that Speed had been less than totally lovable every second of every scene he was ever in. Obviously, this group, the only one I was in then, would not have enjoyed this particular fic, so I skipped writing it down and just enjoyed it myself, picking a subsequent fic (the Good Old Days) to share as my debut. But the reference somehow found its way into Echoes and fit right in this chapter, even though that was just a one-shot missing scene fic and predates FS. I've always loved Losing Face. It's the first CSIM episode I ever saw, and it's also the one that first made me think that Calleigh really cared for H, beyond just as a friend. I don't watch shows looking for ships, but I saw this one. As much as TPTB were trying to shove H/Megan at us as a pairing in that episode, it was H/C and H/team that really touched me. Those people honestly cared about each other. Ah, for that chemistry, both H/C and team as a whole, that we saw in S1.

"Careful the things you say.

Children will listen."

"Into the Woods," Stephen Sondheim

(H/C)

Daniel Wallace stood in his house in helpless incomprehension. It wasn't real. He had wandered into a movie set. Any minute now, Cecilia would come to the door to inform him that dinner was ready. The officer at the doorway had told him to sit down, but he couldn't. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn't go anywhere else and leave this unreal drama. So he stood perfectly still, shoulders slumped, eyes still seeing her wherever he looked.

There was a rustle at the doorway, and he looked up to see a big, burly detective, followed by a tall redhead and a petite blonde. The redhead spoke. "Mr. Wallace?" He nodded. "I'm so sorry," the man said, and it carried a sincerity that thawed the unreality a bit. To this man, it wasn't just a movie set or a job. He really was sorry, and he also realized how inadequate being sorry was at the moment. Wallace nodded silently. "Tell us about this afternoon," the man went on.

"I'd gone out to an appointment, only I couldn't find the address."

The blonde picked up on that immediately. "How was the appointment made? By a phone call leaving a message?"

How did she know that? "Right. There was a message left on my cell phone setting up an appointment, but I couldn't find that house number. Spent quite a while looking, and then I came back." He stopped, his eyes finding their way to, and past, the cop at the doorway and into the next room. The officers were quiet, giving him time. "The front door was locked and bolted, so I went around back. That one was unlocked. I came in and found her." Another pause. "She was in the middle of the floor, and all the blood . . . I called 911."

"Did you touch her?" the redhead said.

He shook his head. "She was . . . I could tell she was dead." They nodded. Anybody could have told she was dead. Her brains had been beaten out with such force that the walls were splattered.

"About this message," the detective asked.

"On my voice mail. Just gave the address and time. He was interested in investments."

"Do you sell insurance, by any chance?"

"Used to, but I'm retired from that. I've got a system daytrading that I've copyrighted. He wanted a demonstration."

"Do you have a website?"

"Yes. It has the cell phone number on it."

"Also email?"

"Yes, but he used the phone." They exchanged a significant look.

"Okay, Mr. Wallace. I'm sure we'll have more questions for you later, but right now, we really need your house. It will help us find the man who did this. Are there friends or family you could stay with?"

"I have some friends." He stopped again and swallowed. "She was the only family."

Was. The finality of the situation echoed. Wallace hoped again for some movie director appearing to call the end to the scene. None came.

(H/C)

"So he didn't get the warning because he's not active insurance," Calleigh said. "But the killer probably got his name from a list somewhere, maybe an old phone book. He said he was doing insurance up until a year ago."

"And he left a message on the phone because that was how the original Wallace was lured away. Also, email is more traceable. Even most public libraries have you log in with your own ID card before you get online. He could have used a pay phone for the cell message. We'll see what Speed can get from the phone. He'd erased the message, but the caller ID record will go back that far."

"So you agree that he's not a likely suspect? The original Wallace was, you know."

"Agreed. We've got to rule it out, of course, but I can't see this man as a history buff or a killer, serial or otherwise. His reactions looked totally genuine."

Calleigh looked around the bustle of the house. A happy home had become a crime scene. Horatio walked over to the body, where Alexx knelt beside it. "Got anything for me, Alexx?"

She looked up at him with dark anger in the eyes. "We've got to stop this one, Horatio."

"We will. She'll help us."

Alexx nodded. "Poor baby. I'm not sure what she was attacked with, but it was some hard, blunt object. She was probably killed at the first blow. The others were just bonus."

Horatio eyed the setup in the front room. "And she would have been standing, facing the door. She let him in, then turned, and he struck. He probably gave her a message that he wanted to wait for her husband."

"I'll see what else we can get at post. How could somebody do this –" she indicated the splatter on the walls – "and then walk away through the city in daylight?"

Horatio shook his head. "Maybe he had a raincoat or something with him and changed clothes after killing her. Maybe we'll find something else in the house, like where he washed up."

"Okay, I'm done for the moment." Alexx stood back and let the workers load the body into the body bag for transport. "It will be tomorrow on the post, though."

"Tomorrow is soon enough. I'm not staying late tonight myself. This isn't going to be solved in the next hour, anyway." He glanced at his watch, then found his way to Calleigh, who was eyeing the spatter on the nearest wall. "Cal, we're leaving in 10 minutes." She looked at her own watch and nodded. Horatio headed on to the far wall, where Speed and Eric were working. "Gentlemen, I'm not staying late tonight. After you get the scene secured and the first sweep done, you can go home. We'll start off fresh in the morning."

Eric and Speed looked at each other. Since when was Horatio a clock-watcher on getting out of work? Horatio followed the glance. "Rosalind is really upset about something right now, and she needs us tonight. I don't want to miss the time with her."

"What's wrong with Rosalind?" Speed asked in concern. He was fond of Horatio's daughter, as was the whole team.

"Jean asked last night when we were going to have more kids, and for some reason, the idea of having siblings really upset Rosalind."

Speed gave a nod. "That I can understand. Family's more pain than it's worth sometimes."

Calleigh, coming up just then, said, "Not for everybody, Speed. Speaking of which, when are you and Breeze going to get married?"

Speed shied away from that question as she had known he would. He and Breeze were by far his longest relationship, but he seemed hesitant to commit to the final step, as if he didn't want to screw up what he had now.

"Anyway," Horatio said, pulling them back to the case, "we'll really get into this one tomorrow. Two things. First, Eric, in the morning I want you to do a complete background search on Dawson, especially related to his family. His father, according to him, was a police officer who was killed in the line of duty six years ago. Probably in Massachusetts; Dawson said he was from there. Verify that case." Eric nodded. "Second, if Dawson doesn't come in tomorrow, we'll go over to check on him again, just as friendly concerned colleagues, of course, and see if he's apparently been home in the meantime. If we happen across any evidence from this case there, then we can get a warrant." They all nodded. "Okay. Good evening, gentlemen. Let's go, Calleigh."

They headed out, and Eric looked over at Speed. "He must really be worried about Rosalind. Poor kid. What do you think about Dawson going missing?"

Speed shrugged. "Either he's dead or he's guilty, but either way, he's involved."

"Definitely," Eric said. They went back to work, taking pictures, securing the scene.

(H/C)

Rosalind was waiting at the door of daycare for them, her expectant face visible through the glass panes as they pulled into the parking lot. She opened the door and let herself out when she saw the Hummer, and Calleigh noted with a sigh that her daughter could work the child-proof latch quite well. She carefully didn't go out between the cars, though, just trotted along the sidewalk to them. Horatio swept her up into his strong arms. "Hey, Angel. No more bad dreams?"

"No," she said. She hugged him fiercely.

"Rosalind!" Dana, looking harried, bolted out the door and stopped. "Oh, you got her. I'm sorry; she's never just run out like that before."

"It's okay," Calleigh reassured her. "She didn't get out until she saw us coming, and she did watch for cars, even then." She lowered her voice and sidled a few steps away from Horatio and Rosalind. "How did she seem to you today, Dana?"

Dana, who had kept Rosalind for over two years, shook her head. "Not like herself at all, even before the nightmare she had. Something's really bothering her, but she wouldn't say what."

Calleigh sighed. "Thank you, Dana. We're not sure what's going on ourselves."

"She can't hold out like this much longer," Dana said. "She'll break. I've never seen her as tense as she was today, all day long."

Horatio had kept Rosalind a few feet away until Calleigh looked over at him in silent acknowledgement of the conversation and its negative results. "Say bye now, Rosalind," he said.

Rosalind looked back politely. "Bye, Dana."

"Bye, Rosalind. See you tomorrow."

Rosalind wrapped herself around her father again like the idea of tomorrow was simply too much to deal with. Today had worn her out completely. "Okay," she said in stoic resignation after a moment.

Horatio buckled her into her car seat, and Calleigh suggested, "Let's pick up supper on the way home, okay? I really don't feel like cooking."

"Good idea," Horatio replied. "What would you like, Rosalind?"

She considered it half-heartedly. "Pizza," she said finally, in a tone that made it sound like a punishment instead of a treat. Horatio and Calleigh looked at each other silently. Rosalind was usually reserved and quiet with strangers, but she had an enthusiasm for life that rippled along as a playful current under the surface waters of self-control, and with her parents, she usually let it show. What had knocked that current out of her?

Horatio headed to the pizza place, and while he went in to pick up a pizza, Calleigh and Rosalind stayed out in the car. Calleigh tried again to get her daughter to talk, about her day or about anything at all, but Rosalind just sat in her car seat silently, a rock with eyes. Calleigh could see the wheels turning, but she had no idea what road they were on. Horatio, returning with pizza, raised one eyebrow very slightly, and Calleigh gave a subtle shake of her head. He passed her the warm box and was just pulling out of the parking lot, waiting for an opening in traffic, when a quiet voice came from the back seat.

"Does Speed lie?"

Horatio and Calleigh both twisted to face their daughter so quickly that they nearly banged heads. "What?" Calleigh asked.

Rosalind eyed them steadily. "Does Speed lie?"

Horatio sighed. "He doesn't really lie, but sometimes, he says things he doesn't mean, even if it sounds like he does mean it." Rosalind knew what a lie was, having heard Alexx lecture Bryan on the subject once, but how did you explain sarcasm to a 2-year-old, even an exceptionally gifted 2-year-old? "Did Speed say something to you about family that upset you?"

Calleigh's fingers tightened reflexively, imagining Speed's neck between them if he had somehow caused this. His heart was in the right place, but he was the best of the entire team at putting his foot in his mouth, too, and he also had a tendency to snap off a wisecrack without thinking at times. She would never forget his comment right after Al had been killed, when Calleigh, Horatio, and Speed were walking out of the bomb-destroyed room that contained the shattered remains of Horatio's best friend. "Top ten ways to get your head blown off," Speed had quipped. He'd apologized a second later after being drilled by the double-barreled glare from both Calleigh and Horatio, but she couldn't believe he'd said it in the first place. That was before her feelings for Horatio had been admitted, even to herself, but she'd never been so angry in her life at anyone as she was just then on Horatio's behalf. Later that day, she had tracked down Speed, dragged him aside to the privacy of her gun vault, and thoroughly flayed him for his thoughtlessness, ending with a promise to string him up at the end of the range and use him for test fires for the next month straight or as long as his body could hold another bullet without falling apart if he ever even thought about saying something like that to Horatio again. She'd never forgotten Speed's wide-eyed look of apprehensive disbelief throughout her tirade. He'd never seen her like that before. She'd never seen herself like that before, either. Now, in the Hummer, she forced her fingers to relax. Innocent until proven guilty, she reminded herself. Then, Speedle, say your prayers. "Rosalind," she started, thinking of Speed's comment earlier that day about family, "Speed hasn't always had a happy life, either. If he said something about families, it doesn't mean it always happens that way."

"Did he say something about having brothers or sisters that night at Alexx's when you were staying there?" Horatio asked. Alexx had said something bothered Rosalind that night and that Speed and Breeze had come over. But that was three months ago, Calleigh thought. Could Rosalind have been upset by something three months ago and totally concealed the fact from her parents until it was suddenly pushed to crisis point by Jean's question? She again mentally plugged in a young Horatio, this time with no difficulty at all. Yes, the three months weren't a problem.

Rosalind's eyes had fallen to her hands, which were knotting into each other so hard that the knuckles were white. "No," she said softly, not looking at them.

"Rosalind," Calleigh started, and her daughter interrupted her.

"Let's go home," she said, a plea whose quietness did nothing to take away from its desperation.

Horatio turned back around and finished exiting the parking lot, much to the relief of the man in the car behind them, who had been honking for the last minute. Horatio glanced at Rosalind in the rearview mirror as he drove toward their house. She was sitting absolutely still, her eyes locked on her hands. He looked over at Calleigh, who was also sitting still, her hands flexing slightly. Her thoughts at least he could follow. "Trial before sentencing, Cal," he said sotto voce. She looked over at him.

"Horatio, I think you're a mindreader at times."

His eyes returned to the rearview mirror. "I wish I were."

She sighed. "Me, too, just for five seconds."

When they arrived home, the first important point for all of them was to establish Jean's absence. Not in the guest room, not in the bathroom, not in the house, not out back. That important matter settled, Horatio and Rosalind took up position on the couch while Calleigh went into the kitchen to get paper towels. It was there on the refrigerator that she found the note. "Horatio, I've gone out with some friends for the evening, but I'll tell you all about it when I get home. Jean." Calleigh took the note off the fridge and headed back into the living room with it in one hand, paper towels in the other. "There's a note from Mother," she started, and then stopped abruptly.

Horatio had settled back on the couch, trying to look relaxed for Rosalind's sake even though he wasn't, and she was in his lap, snuggled against him. The pizza was still unopened in its box on the coffee table. It might have been any night's pleasant domestic scene but for the worried strain on his face and the strength with which Rosalind was hanging onto him, not just giving him a hug but holding him like she never wanted to let go – or like she was afraid to. It was that death grip that made Calleigh suddenly realize that everything in the past difficult day with Rosalind had focused exclusively on Horatio. Waking up at his absence, not earlier when Calleigh had gotten out of bed. Asking after him immediately. Calling from daycare to talk to him, and she had to have requested specifically to talk to him. Calleigh had been right there in the same room, and her phone had never rung, and Rosalind hadn't asked to speak to her later in the conversation, either. It was all Horatio. Suddenly, Calleigh knew what was bothering their daughter.

"Rosalind, do you think something bad is going to happen to Daddy if we have more kids?"

Horatio's head snapped up, startled, as Rosalind hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly, hugging him even more tightly, her shoulders starting to quiver. Calleigh dropped the forgotten note and paper towels and joined her family on the couch, holding a silent consultation with Horatio as she did. They had never told Rosalind about Stewart Otis and the events surrounding her birth, saving that conversation for a time when she was older, but they had carefully established that she had no memory of it. She had noticed his leg, of course – she could hardly miss the scar – but they had just said it was from an old injury without giving a timetable, and she had accepted it without hesitation. So what had changed? Calleigh answered her own question with a mental snarl. Speed.

"What did you overhear Speed say that night, Rosalind? Did he mention something about that Daddy had been hurt badly back when you were born?" Rosalind still hadn't said a word, but she was crying again, softly, and her face was completely buried in Horatio's jacket. Wordlessly, she nodded again.

Horatio carefully pried her away from him. "Rosalind, look at me." She obeyed, tears still streaming down her face. "I was hurt because a very bad man wanted to hurt me. He'd wanted to hurt me for a long time, even before your mother and I were married. It happened at the same time, but I wasn't hurt because your mother had you." She eyed him for a moment, absorbing that. "And it isn't going to happen again," Horatio promised. "If we do have more children – and we probably won't – that won't make me get hurt. Just like you didn't make me get hurt before. It wasn't your fault."

Rosalind sniffled. "Promise?"

"I promise," Horatio said. "It had nothing to do with you, Angel. That bad man would have found a way to hurt me anyway, even if you hadn't been born. And he's dead, Rosalind. He can never hurt me again."

She believed him. She broke down again there, not in hysterical panic this time but just in release of a long-bottled-up hurt. Horatio hugged her tightly, and Calleigh added her strength, one arm around Rosalind and the other around Horatio. Silently, they held her and let her cry herself out. Finally, when the storm had subsided into just occasional sniffles, Horatio pulled her face away and gently wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Rosalind," Calleigh said, "do you mean for the last three months, you've thought it was your fault Daddy was hurt?"

She nodded.

"It wasn't," Calleigh reiterated firmly. "But why didn't you tell us then?"

"Speed said he was fine now."

Horatio understood that one perfectly. "So you overheard him say I'd been hurt when you were born, but then he also said I was fine now, so you didn't think anything could be changed, since it had already happened. Until Gramma asked about more kids, and then you thought it would happen again." She nodded. "Oh, Angel, I'm sorry you had to go through that." He hugged her again. "We would have told you. We didn't know you thought it was your fault."

It was Rosalind who broke the tight embrace this time after a minute. She reached down gently to touch his left leg where the scars nearly encircled it. "Okay now, right?"

"It's fine," he said, picking the wrong word and instantly seeing it in her eyes. Rosalind apparently mistrusted that statement from him as much as Calleigh did. He tried again. "It's healed up very well, Angel. The doctor is really happy with how well it's doing. Really, I'm okay."

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"Sometimes, when I'm really, really tired, it aches a little, but nothing like when I hurt it. Just a little ache. And you know what I do then, Angel?"

"What?" She tilted her head slightly, and Calleigh, watching, thought again how much they were alike.

"I look at you and your mother, and it makes me feel better." He hugged her again. "You make me better, Angel. You have never hurt me."

She settled in against him, not in desperation this time but in release. Calleigh scooted over even tighter, helping him hold their daughter, and they stayed there for several minutes, all of them worn out emotionally as well as physically. Rosalind's eyes were starting to drift closed, and Calleigh abruptly snapped back to routine details. "We haven't eaten yet," she said. "Come on, let's have a pizza." She retrieved the paper towels and handed Rosalind a slice, then gave one to Horatio. They munched contentedly. Out of the corner of her eye, Calleigh suddenly noticed the note from her mother on the floor where she had dropped it. With a mental sigh, she remembered that Rosalind wasn't the only problem they had been dealing with.

"Now what are we going to do with Mother?" she said around a mouthful of pepperoni. "She's going to drive all of us nuts being here, but we can't just kick her out."

"Give Gramma a house," Rosalind suggested. Horatio's head snapped up, and he and Calleigh stared at each other. "Her house," Rosalind went on. "Not here."

"Out of the mouths of babes," Horatio said in soft respect. "Rosalind, that's a wonderful idea."

Calleigh leaned over to give her daughter a kiss. "Rosalind, you're incredible. And we still don't want other kids. Okay?"

"Okay," she said with a smile. "But if . . ."

"But if we do, it won't hurt me," Horatio reiterated. "But I hope we don't, Angel. We couldn't possibly have anything better than the family we've got." She snuggled down against him peacefully, and he wiped her fingers off with a paper towel. Calleigh took the paper towel from him. Grabbing the box with the remnants of the pizza, she stood and headed for the kitchen. What a night, she thought. At least Rosalind would be okay now. Responsibility had indeed been the key, as Calleigh had thought that morning, but she'd been in the right woods and heading in the wrong direction. She'd never dreamed that Rosalind had been keeping a secret hurt like that for three months without any indication of it.

Hope appeared, entwining around Calleigh's ankles, and she poured the cat a saucer of milk. "Everything's going to be okay, Hope," she said. The cat, lapping busily, purred in agreement. Calleigh put the remaining pizza in the refrigerator, then headed back into the living room and stopped in the door with a smile.

Horatio and Rosalind were both sound asleep, her pillowed on his chest. Both of them looked exhausted, but the lines of strain from the night before were gone. It had been a very difficult day, but rest would work wonders for them. She would have left them there if it hadn't been for the note on the floor reminding her of her mother, who had promised to come home later all full of conversation. Calleigh abruptly went into action. No, Horatio and Rosalind had had all they needed to deal with today. Her mother wasn't going to add to it. She crossed to the desk and wrote a note. "Mother, we're not feeling well and have gone to bed early. Please don't wake us up. Love, Horatio and Calleigh." She knew that his name would command infinitely more weight with her mother than her own. She taped the note to the inside of the door just above the knob, where Jean couldn't fail to see it as she turned to close and lock the door behind her when she came in. Then, Calleigh went over to the couch. Reluctantly, she gave Horatio a gentle shake. "Hey, Handsome. Come on, I can't carry both of you. Let's go to bed."

"Mmm," he said indistinctly, not really waking up and not wanting to.

"Mother's coming home later to tell us all about her evening," Calleigh informed him.

The eyes clicked open instantly. "Lock her out?" he suggested.

"Sorry, we gave her a key, but I wrote her a note not to bother us. Come on, Horatio, let's go to bed. I think we all could use a good night's sleep more than anything else at the moment."

"Probably." He stood up. Rosalind never stirred in his arms. "I think she's okay, but let's keep her with us tonight, all right?"

"Of course. I think she'll be fine now, though." They headed down the hall, and Calleigh took their daughter into the nursery to change her into her sleeper. Horatio had already put on his pajamas and laid out hers when she made it into the bedroom, and she closed the door firmly behind her. "There. Mother – and the rest of the world – can just take a number until morning."

"A very high number," Horatio agreed. He climbed into bed, and she tucked Rosalind up against him. She changed clothes herself, then climbed into bed and switched the lamp off. It wasn't yet dark outside, and light found its way through the curtains. Calleigh studied their daughter's face, exhausted but finally peaceful. She shook her head. "Just think, for three months, she's thought it was all her fault you were hurt, but she never said a word. Horatio, if I'd had any doubt at all this is your daughter, she would have proved it to me tonight."

He gave a sheepish grin. "Does sound familiar, doesn't it?" He kissed her again. "I'm sorry, Angel. We should have guessed it."

Calleigh knew that he never would have gotten there, for all his analytical brilliance. Concern for himself was an explanation that wouldn't have occurred to him. "We had established long ago that she didn't remember it. We didn't know anything had changed, so we weren't even thinking of that as a possibility." Her hands tightened again slightly. "I'm going to have a talk with Speedle."

"It was just a casual comment, Cal. He didn't think of the kids listening, and it came up so innocently in the conversation that even Alexx didn't pick up on it. And we knew she'd find out sooner or later." He shook his head. "I might have a talk with him myself, but let's leave the guns in the holsters, okay?"

She grinned suddenly at the reminder of her former threat to Speed, stringing him up at the end of the range and using him for test fires. "I suppose we could just let him off with a warning."

"For a first offense, anyway." He tightened his grip on Rosalind. "I should have seen it, though."

She leaned across the gap to kiss him. "You fixed it, Horatio. She had to hear it from you. I think she'll be okay now. She's got less experience than you did at this."

He nodded. "We'll have to watch her from now on. I don't ever want to miss something like that again."

"Neither do I." She touched her daughter's cheek gently. They lay there in peaceful silence for a few minutes. "What do you think about Rosalind's suggestion for Mother, Horatio? It might push us a bit to add an extra house payment, but if it would work, it'd be worth it. And it just might work. I can see Mother enjoying decorating her very own place. Let's look on the far side of Miami, though. Okay?"

He didn't respond, and when she raised her eyes from Rosalind's face to his, she saw that he was asleep again. She smiled, watching them together. Horatio, who could blame himself for anything in a heartbeat, and his daughter. Her family. "What am I going to do with the two of you?" she asked in fond exasperation. At the moment, the best choice seemed to be to go to sleep herself, so she did, one hand resting on Rosalind's shoulder, joining Horatio's there, holding their daughter.


	11. Chapter 11

Echoes of the Past, Chapter 11.

A/N: Sorry for the delay. RL has been nuts. I divided my intended chapter 11 in two and managed to write down half in several small 5-minute intervals, so at least you have something.

A/N 2: FS is based from CSIM season 1 and angled off from there. Therefore, the layout of CSI is as presented in season 1, including Horatio's office. I don't watch the show anymore and have never seen the renovated lab, so my fic will always use the old version.

(H/C)

"Oh, many a shaft at random sent

Finds mark the archer little meant!

And many a word, at random spoken,

May soothe or wound a heart that's broken!"

Sir Walter Scott

(H/C)

Morning. Horatio's eyes slid open to analyze the early daylight. Too late to go back to sleep, too early to get up just yet, he decided. Besides, he didn't want to disturb his family. He was facing Calleigh with Rosalind between them, giving him the chance to watch both of them sleep at once. Rosalind's face was peaceful, the strain of yesterday gone. One arm was wrapped around his, clutching him as she slept like she usually held her stuffed horse. His daughter. He would have said he loved her as much as possible, but it seemed every day, he loved her more, an ever-expanding warmth in his soul. His focus shifted to Calleigh. Her long blonde hair had fallen across her face, a partial curtain, but beneath it, her face was relaxed. Her eyes twitched behind closed lids, and she smiled in her sleep. He smiled in response, though with a touch of questioning concern behind it.

Before he could chase that thought further, the bedroom door clicked open over his shoulder, and Jean's footsteps were heard. She was trying to be stealthy, with about as much success as a hippopotamus would have had tiptoeing, and Calleigh's eyes sprang open before she was halfway to the bed. Rosalind shifted between her parents, reluctantly surfacing from the land of dreams.

Jean tiptoed around the bed to Calleigh's side, and Horatio could now see that she held a tray. Calleigh's eyes met his for a resounding look before she turned onto her back. "Good morning, Mother."

"Oh, good, I was hoping you weren't up yet." Jean presented the tray, which held a few crackers and some dry toast. "The secret to dealing with this is to eat a little bit before you get up. I hope you won't have as hard a time as I had with it, though." She pushed the tray at Calleigh. "Go ahead. It will make you feel better."

Calleigh and Horatio both sighed in perfect unison. "Mother, I am not pregnant," Calleigh stated again, firmly.

A puzzled frown crossed Jean's face. "But you said in the note you weren't feeling well. Morning sickness doesn't just happen in the morning."

"No, Mother, I said that WE weren't feeling well. All of us. That's why we went to bed early."

Jean lowered the tray. "You're sure you're not pregnant?" Horatio looked at Rosalind to see how she was taking this. She had on her analytical look, studying Jean like a lab specimen, but she didn't seem to be getting upset. Last night's cure had worked. One problem down, at least.

"No, Mother, I am definitely not pregnant," Calleigh insisted. "Furthermore, I have no intentions of getting pregnant. We do not want more kids, and we aren't planning any. If you want more grandkids, you'll just have to look somewhere else. Talk to Peter." She flinched a bit guiltily as she said it, mentally apologizing to Peter and Becky, but she had had all this she could take. She looked at Rosalind herself and was reassured by her daughter's detached interest. This was Rosalind people watching, one of her favorite occupations, trying to figure out what made someone tick.

Jean stepped back from the bed with the expression of a scolded Beagle. "You might start breakfast, Jean," Horatio said, trying to make her feel a little better. "We'll be up in a minute."

"Okay," she said flatly. She turned and left the room.

Calleigh sighed. "I know she's my mother, but she's going to drive me crazy living here," she said softly.

"We'll work on finding her another place," Horatio replied, just as quietly. "That was a good idea about a house, Rosalind." Rosalind smiled at him, and he smiled back. He reached over to switch off the alarm clock. "Now, we'd better get up."

"Not yet," Rosalind objected. He started to explain that they had no choice, but Rosalind crawled up his chest and gave him a vigorous hug, then turned to do the same to Calleigh. "Good morning first," she insisted.

"Good morning, Angel," they replied. And as their eyes met, it suddenly was one.

(H/C)

Calleigh returned from day care and climbed into the Hummer. "All peaceful," she reported. "I still can't believe she's hidden it that well." She looked at her husband. "She could have inherited a few less of your talents in some areas."

He flinched. "She's okay now, at least, but I feel like we should have noticed something before it came to this."

"Believe me, I know." They drove on in silence toward CSI for a minute. "So do we want to go house hunting this weekend?"

"Absolutely." He smiled at her. "Amazing that we hadn't thought of that."

"We're too close to it, I guess. Just dealing with it instead of seeing an objective solution. It's hard to be objective about Mother." She frowned slightly. "Speaking of parents, I was thinking in the shower this morning about this case."

Horatio could already tell he was going to like this. He loved new angles on old problems. "And?"

"We're thinking that Dawson may have some deeply hidden trauma back in his childhood that made him either MPD or schizophrenic. But why are we only focusing on his father?"

Horatio smacked the steering wheel with one hand. "You're right. He talked about his father several times, but I've never heard him so much as mention his mother. Everyone has two parents."

"Maybe the trauma is there. When you're having Eric check out his father's death to verify his story, you might have him check on Dawson's mother, too."

He stopped at a light and turned to smile at her. "Calleigh, you're not only beautiful, you're perceptive. I never thought of that." He studied her face for a minute. She was looking into the distance, intent, her lips a bit stubborn. She was wrestling the case mentally just now, searching out solutions, and she looked so perfectly Calleigh that he could fall in love all over again. He loved watching her on a case.

The light changed, and he started again. "Cal?"

The hesitation pulled her away from the case. "What is it, Horatio?"

"What were you dreaming about early this morning?"

She had to track it back for a minute. She hadn't woken up, but she had definitely been dreaming something unpleasant, though she had settled down at his touch. "I guess Rosalind last night just reminded me of everything that did happen back when she was born."

He nodded. "Understandable. I've got the benefit of not remembering all of it; you don't. So you were dreaming about Otis?"

She looked at him, startled. "Otis? No. That alley rat isn't worth wasting nightmare time on."

He was confused now. "Then what?"

He really didn't see it. She shook her head, torn between love and exasperation. "You, you idiot. Almost losing you. That was the nightmare. Not Otis."

He reached across to touch her arm. "You didn't lose me."

It had been close, though. Her soul still shuddered when she thought how close it had been. "I know," she replied. She looked down at his hand on her arm, his warm, living, strong fingers tightening around her wrist, and she put her hand on top of his. "I know," she repeated. "But once in a while, I still dream about it."

He nodded in silent understanding as the CSI complex loomed up in front of them.

(H/C)

Eric and Speed were already there, Eric signing into the computer station, Speed starting to sort the many envelopes they already had of evidence from the Wallace case. "Good morning, gentlemen," Horatio said as he and Calleigh swept in.

"Morning, H. Morning, Calleigh," Eric replied. Speed just gave them an acknowledging nod. "So, did Dawson come in today?"

"I don't know yet. We'll give him another 15 minutes, and then Cal and I will head over there with Tripp to check his house again. Speed, when you get this batch sorted and filed, go finish up processing the Wallace house. It was guarded overnight, so nothing should have been touched. Eric, Calleigh had a brilliant idea this morning." He stepped back half a step, giving her the floor.

"I was just thinking, in looking at Dawson's background, don't limit yourself to his father. Maybe his mother was abusive or something, and that's why he never talked about her."

Eric nodded. "Good idea. I'll start with verifying his father's death, because that should be easiest if he was a cop killed in the line of duty. But I won't stop there."

"Thank you, gentlemen." Horatio turned his body slightly to face only one of the men instead of both of them. "Speed. My office." He whirled around with his graceful unhurried efficiency, heading for his office without another word or glance behind him. Speed, startled out of his illusion of casual indifference, looked after Horatio's retreating back, puzzled, then looked at Calleigh. Calleigh had not started after her husband yet, but her eyes fixed on Speed made him suddenly more nervous than Horatio's summons had.

Eric glanced from Horatio to Calleigh, finally settling on his coworker, caught in the middle. "What'd you do?"

Speed shrugged, but even he couldn't make it look casual, though he tried. "Beats me. Want to give me a hint, Calleigh?"

Her steely gaze never wavered. "You don't want to keep Horatio waiting," she prompted, and her voice had an undertone like a bullet clicking into its chamber. Speed flinched, then turned to rapidly pursue his boss. Horatio was most of the way to the stairs now. Speed caught up to him, but his ears were tuned to Calleigh behind. She had stayed about three feet behind him and at identical speed all the way. Speed suddenly wished he could have this meeting, whatever it was about, with only one of them instead of both, and his choice wouldn't have been Calleigh.

After climbing the stairs, Horatio entered his office and crossed to behind the desk, turning to face Speed at that point for the first time since the layout room. "Sit down," he invited. Speed cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, where Calleigh had taken up position square in front of the closed office door, and took a seat. She did not. Horatio's eagle eyes abruptly went to the glass wall, and Speed looked over to see a few of the workers their procession had passed standing below in curiosity, looking up toward the office. They scattered at once at Horatio's glare. He watched them retreat to work, then turned again to Speed. "We found out last night what was bothering Rosalind."

"What?" Speed could hear Calleigh's soft breathing a few feet behind him, quiet, even, and deadly.

"Remember a few months ago when you and Breeze went over to Alexx's for the evening while Calleigh and I were gone to that conference upstate?" After a moment of mental search engine, Speed nodded. "Alexx was keeping Rosalind. During the evening, when the kids were playing around and the adults were talking and not paying much attention to them, you mentioned something about how badly I had been hurt back when Rosalind was born."

Speed wished Calleigh would come around to his front or, better yet, take a seat herself. "So?" he asked distractedly. The other possible meaning struck him a second later, diverting his attention momentarily even from Calleigh. "Wait a minute, I didn't mean as cause and effect."

"She thought you did," Horatio replied.

"But that was two or three months ago, H."

"Right. And she never said a word, because it had already happened, and she thought nothing could be changed. Until Jean started talking two nights ago about us having more kids."

"And she thought it would happen again," Speed completed. Horatio nodded. "Poor kid. Honestly, H, I'd never do anything to hurt Rosalind." Calleigh shifted slightly behind him. "Not intentionally. I wouldn't have done that for the world. I wasn't even thinking about the kids. They were just playing around, not part of the conversation. She never said anything." The usually reticent Speed was almost stumbling over the words in his rush to get them out.

"But she was there, and she heard you." Horatio leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers in front of him. "I know you didn't mean it, Speed. But please be more aware when she's around, okay? She notices everything, and she hears everything, but she still interprets it as a 2-year-old many times, as gifted as she is. Think about how what you're saying might come across to a child that age. And realize that she isn't going to react right away. She's much more likely to keep things locked up to think about and never let you know what you said. That doesn't mean she doesn't notice. For three months, she's thought it was all her fault I got hurt, just from one casual comment that wasn't even made to her."

Speed flinched. "I'm sorry, H." He twisted around in the chair, relieved to face Calleigh, even if she did look mad at him. Facing her was better than having her silent presence hovering just over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Calleigh. I didn't mean it."

She looked at him steadily. "Think before you speak, Speedle. I could still use a target for test fires."

He immediately got the reference. Vividly. He would never forget that day. He stood up quickly, feeling suddenly safer on his feet than pinned in the chair. "I'm sorry. Really. Um, can I go back to work now, H?"

Horatio nodded, and Speed was out the door like a shot, giving Calleigh a wide berth on his way out. She relaxed the silent threat when he left, though her eyes still had a bit of what Horatio called angry glitter. She gave her husband a thin smile. "It still wasn't nearly what he put Rosalind through, but maybe this will put some fear into him so the lesson sticks."

"Fear of you, anyway. Hovering behind him like that. You scared him more than I did." His eyes swept her approvingly. "And you should." She relaxed much more then and gave him a full smile. "But what was that about a target for test fires? I felt like I was missing a reference there."

"Private joke," Calleigh replied. Horatio had never known about her visit to Speed that day, because she had no desire to remind him of Speed's comment about Al. Even as a quote, she could never say that to him. Bad enough that he'd had to hear it once.

He tilted his head slightly, eyeing her with trusting curiosity. "Okay, then. Keep it to yourself."

She walked around the desk and traced his cheekbone and jaw lightly with her hand, kissing his face with her fingertips. "Thank you, Horatio." .

He captured her hand in his, holding it captive against his cheek for a minute. "Anytime. Now then, let's get to work. We have a killer to catch."

"Right." They headed out the door and down the stairs, side by side.

(H/C)

Speed slunk into the layout room and dropped into a chair. Eric grinned at him. "That bad, huh? Should I call Alexx for a post?"

"Shut up, Delko." Speed started on the mountain of evidence from the case, focusing far too intensely to fool his fellow CSI.

Eric came over to his side. "So what was it you did?"

Speed looked up with an expression that jolted Eric out of his teasing. "I have a job to do even if you don't, so either get back to work or go away."

"Sorry." Eric retreated to the computer station, wondering what on earth Horatio and Calleigh had said. Maybe office gossip would inform him sooner or later.

Left to his work, Speed started analyzing trace on autopilot, his thoughts nowhere near the Wallace case revisited. Instead, he was thinking about Rosalind. By this point, of course, he had spent countless evenings around her. She wasn't that friendly in general, but she knew and accepted all the team by now, trusting them enough to open up her personality. Rosalind, who trusted him, who had made him wonder for the first time in his life what his own daughter might be like, who was so quietly unobtrusive that you could forget she was in the room at times, who absolutely adored her father. Rosalind, who had been crushed under undeserved guilt three months ago by his unthinking comment and had never shown it until now. The evidence swam in front of him slightly, and he blinked a few times to bring it back into focus. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. Eric, 10 feet away, heard and wondered, but he knew better than to ask. In silence, they continued work on the case.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N. This is the next chapter of Echoes of the Past, shorter than usual, but I had broken the planned chapter 11 into two pieces. Schedule insanity continues. More when I can. The next chapter will be quite a mouthful.

(H/C)

"I pass with relief from the tossing sea of Cause and Theory to the firm ground of Result and Fact."

Sir Winston S. Churchill

(H/C)

Tripp was at his desk in HQ staring at paperwork like an uncooperative suspect. He looked up when Horatio and Calleigh approached. "Not here," he replied, answering the question before it was asked.

"What are we waiting for, then?" Horatio asked.

"You." Tripp pushed the paperwork away firmly and stood up. "Let's go check on our missing coworker. Sure am worried about him."

"Me, too," Calleigh agreed softly, giving it an entirely different meaning. Horatio gave her a crooked smile, and they headed out to the garage.

Tripp sat in the back, eyeing the two of them during the first few minutes of the drive. "What's up?"

"What do you mean?" Calleigh asked, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Something's different. Something's happened."

"You're good," Horatio reflected, eyes on the traffic.

"Better be, after all these years. So what's up?"

"We solved one of our three main problems in life last night," Calleigh informed him.

"Doing pretty good if you've only got three problems," Tripp replied.

"Do you want to know, or not?" Calleigh said, making a show of turning back to the front as if concluding the conversation. Tripp was silent. She smiled. "Rosalind's been really upset about something the last few nights. Last night, we worked it out."

"You worked it out," Horatio corrected.

"You helped out by being the evidence. I just had to analyze it from the right angle. Turns out, she'd overheard some comment Speed made a few months ago about Horatio getting hurt, and she was convinced that if we ever had any more kids, he'd get hurt again, like last time. And Mother has been pestering us to death lately to have more kids."

Tripp gave a grunt of as near sympathy as he ever showed. "Poor kid. She thought it was because of her being born?" Both of them nodded. "Did you straighten her out?"

"Yes. We talked about it, and she seems fine now."

"What are the other two problems in life?"

"This case and my mother," Calleigh replied.

"Which one do you think we'll solve first?" Horatio put in.

Tripp had no doubt. "The case." They both sighed, agreeing with him.

Horatio pulled over to the curb in front of Dawson's house. "Let's go check on our coworker." They all got out, making a casually concerned production out of it for the benefit of any neighbors who might be watching, and headed up to the door. "Dawson?" Horatio knocked politely, then more firmly. "Dawson? Are you here? Is anything wrong?"

"Enough," Calleigh urged him. "Go ahead and pick the lock."

He shook his head, stepping back slightly. "Your turn." He loved watching her work, most of all with guns, but tool analysis and even lock picking were pretty good, too. She always held her lips positioned just so in concentration. He watched her, and Tripp watched both of them, amused and not showing it. The lock clicked, and the door opened.

Horatio took two steps inside and stopped. "Feel it?" he asked Calleigh.

She felt the difference from the day before, but it took a minute to sort it out. Then, the atmosphere of years of crime scenes pressed in on her, and she analyzed it. The place looked exactly the same, but all of them knew on some inner level that it had changed. Today, the house held something for them. She pulled on her gloves, and Horatio did the same. His cell phone immediately rang.

"Horatio."

It was Eric. "H, I'm still digging on Dawson's background, but I thought I'd let you know, his father really was a policeman killed in the line of duty six years ago."

"How?"

"Gang shoot-out. Two of the gang went to prison; the leader got off on a technicality; one other one turned informant and cut a plea bargain."

"Six years ago. That would have been while Dawson was already in the academy, according to the time table he gave me. It didn't make him become a cop, but the stress might have knocked him over the edge psychiatrically." He frowned even as he said it. Six years were a long time to not show anything when you were under daily stress of a high-pressure job like police work, and Dawson had an excellent record. Both of his previous chiefs had commended his work, although both had confirmed that he was a true crime buff. "No, that's probably not enough, not at that age. It had to be earlier. Keep digging on his background. I still think he's involved."

"Will do, H. Talk to you later." Eric hung up, and Horatio snapped his cell shut with a thoughtful frown.

"His father checked out," Calleigh commented.

"The story of his death, anyway."

"Did you think he'd lied?" Tripp could tell Horatio wasn't totally happy about the confirmation.

"Not really, not on that. I was just thinking, we're working on the theory that he's psychiatrically unbalanced, but he's held together for six years as a cop on the street. You two didn't talk to his former supervisors. He didn't have any black marks, except that they agreed he's a history nut. You'd think it would have shown somewhere."

"People can go suddenly over the edge," Calleigh argued. "And this place is not normal. Even yesterday. People don't live like this."

Horatio nodded. "He's involved, but I'm still missing something. And I keep having this feeling that I already know it." He shook himself mentally. "Let's search the house again. And go very carefully today. Something's different about this place. Just remember, we don't have a warrant yet."

By unspoken agreement, they took the same assignments as the day before, Calleigh on one side of the hall, Horatio to the other, Tripp into the rest of the house. Calleigh looked into the bathroom, sweeping it carefully with her eyes. The towel hung up was different than the one the day before, she noted. He had been here.

He still was here. She pushed open the halfway closed door to the bedroom and stopped cold. "Horatio!"

He was there instantly, coming from the library across the hall. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway and took in the scene. Dawson was in bed, eyes closed, body absolutely still. Too still. "Maybe we can get a warrant now," Calleigh said.

Horatio had gone across to check for a pulse, confirming what he already knew. He frowned slightly, noticing the pill bottle on the nightstand. It was open and empty. "Frank!" he called sharply.

Calleigh walked slowly around the room, and on the far side of the bed, something caught her eye. The very tip of a wooden handle protruded from beneath the bed. She dropped to her knees, looking under without touching it. "There's a bloody hatchet under the bed, Horatio. That wasn't here yesterday."

Tripp appeared in the doorway. "He dead?"

Horatio nodded.

"There's a gun under here, too, and a knife," Calleigh said, carefully not reaching for them. Looking under the bed had been justified, as the handle stuck out into the open, but they still didn't have a warrant to pull out what was under there. "I'll call for a warrant. I'll bet these are the weapons from the history cases."

Horatio picked up the bottle in his gloved hand, reading the label. Valium. It was indeed Dawson's prescription. "These are his pills. Valium. Filled just a week ago. Take as needed for anxiety."

Calleigh shook her head. "If he was on Valium, I'd hate to see him without it. Do we want Eric or Speed over here, Horatio?"

"Speed. Eric's doing the background check, and it just got a lot more relevant. Also Alexx. Thanks, Cal." She retreated to a corner, pulling out her phone, and Tripp circled the bed and crouched to peer under it. He couldn't manage it as easily as Calleigh had, but what he saw was enough.

"We got him. Looks like he committed the crimes and then committed suicide."

"But where were the weapons yesterday? Calleigh looked under the bed."

Tripp shrugged, wanting to believe it. "In a closet somewhere?"

"We'll see. Once we get a warrant. Is his car here now?" Tripp nodded. "We'll search it too."

"Maybe the neighbors saw something when he came in."

"Maybe."

Calleigh clicked her phone shut. "Speed will be over here and pick up a warrant on the way." She smiled slightly, remembering how nervous he had been at her call. Speed definitely would want to stay on her good side for the next few weeks, at least. "Alexx is coming, too." She walked up beside Horatio and picked up the bottle herself, reading the label. "We can check with this doctor, too." She put the bottle back down, impatient. "Once the warrant gets here."

"You think it was suicide?" Tripp asked.

Calleigh looked at Dawson. "He's totally laid out and peaceful." She picked up a wrist, judging the rigor. "TOD would be about right for an overdose last night. But it seems too neat and wrapped up, doesn't it?"

Horatio nodded. "There's something I'm missing."

"I always thought he was involved, though," Calleigh said. "He knew too much about the killings and which crimes to come next. But why would he help us at times? That's where the multiple personality theory came in."

"He definitely knew too much on the crime sequence," Horatio said. "Even for a history buff, he was too accurate on the order of the cases, and he always said Wallace was the ultimate one." His voice trailed off slightly, and the familiar blue fire ignited in his eyes. "I can't believe I missed that. He told me himself."

"What?" Calleigh and Tripp asked together, Calleigh's voice just a fraction ahead.

Horatio turned to face them, his expression one of predatory triumph. "Calleigh, we're down to just one major problem."


	13. Chapter 13

Echoes of the Past, Chapter 13.

A/N: For those coming in late to the series, please remember that the Fearful Symmetry series is AU at this point. When it started (mid S1), nothing there was anti canon, although TPTB later completely changed canon on Cal's background and Horatio's background, as well as later adding details of their (insert the adjective of your choice here – I could think of several from what I've heard but will refrain) story of Horatio's parents. FS is true through part of S1, and from there, it is true to itself. It no longer bears much resemblance at all to the series, and I have no wish for it to. I would rather remember the good old days of S1 when this show was worth watching. I quit watching 2/3 of the way through S3 and should have quit earlier than that. When the ship is sinking (not referring to any relationship "ship" but to a ship ship as an image for a once large and impressive show), it is time to jump for the life raft of fanfic and make for safe ground, leaving the sunken wreck and the floating debris behind you, not so much regretful for the loss as grateful that you have survived it.

Anyhow, all that to say that I know it doesn't match. I don't mean for it to. Enjoy reading, but don't try to match details up, or you'll just give yourselves a headache. TPTB do enough in that department already. I don't want to add to it. :)

One chapter left after this one. I hope you will agree that I have played fair.

(H/C)

"Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you."

Annie Get Your Gun

(H/C)

Horatio's eyes were blue lasers as he looked from Calleigh to Tripp and back again, lasers that, like the man himself, were absolutely focused on the perp and would never wound an innocent bystander in the cross-fire. "When I first talked to Dawson about his background, he said something that went right past me at the time. But it's the key to this whole case. It has to be. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"What?" Calleigh asked. She loved watching his deductive leaps on a case, but they could be maddening at the same time.

"We kids," Horatio quoted. "He was talking about his father and what a true crime buff his father had been. He said something like, 'Once we kids were teenagers, he would share details with us and ask opinions.'"

Calleigh physically jumped slightly as it hit her. "He has a brother."

"Could be a sister, but more likely a brother. I think definitely a sibling. I said early on that the killer was competing with us, but I was wrong. He wasn't competing with the police. He was competing with Dawson."

Difficulties from the case fell into line with that theory in her mind, smoothing away the contradictions. "That would explain why Dawson knew so much about which cases would be picked, how the killer thought, the backgrounds he used, and still would try to help us. He really was trying to help us, but the killer had a practically identical background." She shook her head. "Why on earth didn't that occur to us sooner?"

Horatio looked away from her eyes, taking the failure personally, as he always did. He could forgive anyone else for a lapse except himself. He looked at Dawson to give himself another focus. "He even told me. You didn't have that. I did, and I missed it."

Calleigh reached out to touch his chin, turning his head back to face her. "This serial killer wasn't your fault, so don't even start. And about not catching the statement earlier, we've had a few other things going on this week, Horatio." She held his gaze, making sure he saw the undiminished trust and respect there, not just as a spouse but as a CSI, and he finally grinned slightly in acknowledgement.

Tripp cleared his throat, sounding like a grandfather clock gearing itself up to strike. "Hate to disrupt this blame party, but anybody want to go catch the killer now that we know where to look?"

They snapped apart, both instantly focused fully on the case again. "Right," they said in perfect unison, and Horatio's phone rang. He glanced at it. Eric. "Horatio."

Eric sounded excited. "H, I've got something on Dawson's background."

"Does he have a brother or a sister?" Horatio asked.

There was a stunned silence for a moment on the other end. "HOW do you do that?"

Horatio smiled, and it carried through his voice, even though Eric couldn't see him. "Sorry, Eric. I've been late picking up clues on this one, but I appreciate the confirmation. Actually, I was about to call you. Brother or sister?"

"He has a brother, one year younger. But get this, H. The brother has been institutionalized on a psychiatric unit back in Massachusetts until a year ago, when he was declared sane by the shrinks and released. And you know what the diagnosis was he was in for?" Eric paused, but Horatio didn't steal his thunder this time. Satisfaction evident in his voice, Eric continued. "Psychotic break and extremely severe PTSD symptoms following his father's death, and resulting from years of abuse, physical and sexual, by his mother. Apparently, the father was the only good in his life, he thought, and when that was removed, he totally went crazy. There was a trial on the mother, but he wasn't stable enough to testify."

"Dawson did," Horatio filled in.

"Right. The mother was sentenced to three years but died one year into her sentence in a riot. Dawson insisted at the trial that his father never knew."

Horatio shook his head slightly as more details fell into place. "Why didn't I see that?" he said. "He never referred to his mother. Not once. And the whole atmosphere of this house, so locked down and obsessively controlled. I should have guessed something was there in his past. Probably, the father escaped into true crime research to avoid facing up to what his wife was, although it might have been subconscious." He forced his attention back to the solution of the case, not his own oversights on it. "Okay, Eric, so the brother moved back to Miami. Where is he?"

"Well, that's the tough one, H. I looked, of course. No Dawsons who matched on utility hookups or voting records or phone listings in the computer."

Horatio gritted his teeth in frustration. They were bringing this man in today, before he decided to compete with the police in general instead of just with his brother. "Keep digging, Eric. He's there somewhere. His name was Dawson, too, right?"

"Right, but I got to thinking after hitting that dead end. What kind of an alias would Dawson's brother pick that Dawson would recognize?"

It was obvious once he thought about it, like so much else. "A historical murderer or victim," Horatio said. "Old enough to not get noticed at the utility companies, but Dawson would know. He was challenging Dawson to find him."

"Right. It's the man from the Hall-Mills case. That first one in the series. And I've got an address."

The blue lasers were pulsing, building in intensity, preparing to fire. "Nice work."

(H/C)

They were crossing Miami without sirens, coming in silently, not wanting to spook him when there was a chance to catch him asleep. He'd had a hard night's work. As they drove, two police cars fell in behind them, the silver Hummer leading like a shark closing in on its prey.

"What about the Valium prescription?" Tripp said from the back seat of the Hummer.

"We'll have to tie up loose ends once we can question him," Horatio said, staring intently ahead. His hands flexed on the wheel, wishing it were the perp's neck.

"I was just thinking about that," Calleigh started. Horatio's eyes broke focus long enough to look over at her with pride. She was good, his Calleigh. "You go to the doctor, sign up as a new patient, and you fill out the information sheet. If you don't give them old medical records, and you don't give them an insurance card and pay privately instead, who's to keep you from putting down somebody else's name there, especially if it's almost the same as your own? Couple of visits to establish, get the prescription, use a few months and refills. Voila, one medical record with a psychiatrist, who was seeing his brother under Dawson's name."

Horatio smiled. "You're good."

"So are you," she said pointedly.

The Hummer pulled to the curb and stopped. The police cruisers pulled behind him, and a quick meeting was held on the sidewalk. "Six doors down," Horatio said. "Be quiet and be ready. We know from his history he isn't mentally stable." They went into action quickly, a well-coordinated team. Four officers split off to the alley to secure the back door. Horatio, Calleigh, Tripp, and one more cop took the front. Calleigh saw a few twitches behind curtains as they moved in, but no one came out or questioned them. It was a quiet neighborhood, not quiet enough for nosy old people who stayed at home all the time, not cheap enough for gang territory, altogether nondescript. An ideal choice, she thought. Dawson's brother might be unstable, but everything about this case testified that he was intelligent and a careful planner. That was why Horatio thought catching him off guard, jolting him out of his plans, was the best bet.

They hurried up the sidewalk and flattened against the house on either side of the door. Horatio looked at his watch, timing it with the team in back to be in place, then leaned across and rang the doorbell. Silence for a minute. Slowly there were shuffling footsteps, and then the door opened cautiously. An eye peered through the gap.

Horatio held up his badge in one hand, his gun in the other, keeping his body to one side. "Miami-Dade Police, Mr. Dawson. Welcome to Miami." With a crash, the door slammed shut, and running footsteps retreated through the house. Tripp and the other officer crashed against the door, breaking the rather flimsy lock. Shouts and a struggle had already been heard from the back, and they raced through the house, guns ready. They weren't needed. By the time they got to the back porch, Dawson's brother was being cuffed and having his Miranda card read. His eyes ran over his captors like they were somehow not good enough to be touching him. Finally, his gaze settled on Horatio, recognizing him from the press conference.

"Lieutenant Horatio Caine, Counterfeit Detective."

"Interesting thing is, I got a note from the serial killer that was addressed that way." Horatio nailed him with the blue fire, and Dawson's brother flinched back half a step before he caught himself and stood his ground.

"I still won," he said. He looked around the circle of police, as if it suddenly mattered that he convinced them. "I still won. I beat him. I made it through to planning Wallace before he did, even leaving clues for him, and he didn't work it out until the night before." He gave a laugh that sent shivers up Calleigh's spine. "And Wallace was the ultimate case. Dad always said so. So I won." He was still laughing when the officers led him back to the police cruiser. Horatio, Calleigh, and Tripp followed in silence.

(H/C)

Later that afternoon, Calleigh came up to Horatio's office. "The bullets from Hall-Mills match. His fingerprints are on Dawson's toilet flush lever and sink. Only Dawson's on the Valium bottle, but we know that was planted."

Horatio nodded. "Speed has matched his fingerprints to the ones on all the letters and the card at Hall-Mills. And Alexx turned up bruising and an injection mark on Dawson. He'd kept him sedated that last day while he murdered those poor people." Horatio's hands tightened on his pen. "Those poor, innocent people."

Calleigh came around the corner of the desk and slid into his chair next to him, and he pulled her close. "You're shivering," he said with concern.

"Just thinking about the victims, like you are. And that man being turned loose by psychiatrists."

"And?" One eyebrow quirked upward slightly.

She gave a half-hearted smile at his perception. "And their mother. And my mother, and Jo Anne. How much we just can't escape the effects of the past. Even other people's pasts. Life is so connected."

His arm pulled her even tighter. "I know." His head leaned over onto hers, and they sat that way in silence for several minutes, drawing strength and sanity from each other, convincing themselves that in spite of all pasts, they were together. "Cal?"

"Yes?"

"Let's leave early. We can finish detail work on this case later. Dawson has already been committed for a 96-hour involuntary psychiatric hold."

She straightened up. "What do you want to do, Handsome?"

He studied his desk. "I just want to go down to our spot, the rock on the beach, and watch the tide until it's time to get Rosalind."

She nodded. The sea, powerful, impersonal, cleansing, ever moving on even while it washed the same beach over and over. They both loved it. He had proposed to her there, in the middle of a storm. They often sought it in storms, physical and personal, since. "That sounds wonderful, Handsome." She stood up, one hand still on his arm. "It wasn't our fault, you know."

He smiled at that "our," at her including herself alongside him. "I know." He stood up himself and pulled her to him. For a long moment, they simply held each other. Then, side by side, they left his office and left the police complex together.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: The final chapter. Thanks to all who have stuck with me through this, and sorry it was so sprawled out. RL truly has been insane at times during this one. Hope you enjoy the ending and the one remaining kink in the tail of this plot. Rosalind's "great escape," by the way, is a nearly identical copy of something I did myself at one and a half. If cribs have changed since then, sorry for the inaccuracy. Having no kids myself, I have no idea what current design is, but when I was a kid, I managed to get it to work using a toy, even if it took a bit of experimentation to figure out.

(H/C)

"Women forget all those things they don't want to remember, and remember everything they don't want to forget. The dream is the truth. Then they act and do things accordingly."

Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

(H/C)

Calleigh opened her eyes onto blessed, sunlit peace. Horatio's face near hers, unconsciously turned toward her even in sleep, the lines smoothed out somewhat into rest. Their bedroom, familiarity and yet still a sense of wonder at what she had, at where life had led her. The faint call of birds, the faint sound of the tide washing the shore, both heard through the slightly opened window. Home.

She wondered briefly about the time, obviously later than usual, then realized that it was Saturday, and they were off today. Saturday. Only last Sunday, a week ago, Jean had arrived in Miami. Last Monday, the case had launched itself. So much packed into a week, as if Time were sitting on a suitcase to wedge the last possible item in before the zipper closed. How on earth could her mother, Rosalind, and Dawson have all fit into only one week?

The thought of Rosalind immediately kicked her mind into more practical gears. Their daughter would be waking up soon. Calleigh crept surreptitiously out of bed, and Horatio stirred slightly without waking up and reached out a probing hand. She gently captured it and placed it on her pillow, pushing it a bit closer to him, so he would sense her warmth and her scent. He settled down instantly, and she tiptoed to and through the door, closing it behind her.

Across into the nursery, and cold fear gripped her abruptly, replacing routine. Rosalind was not there. The bed was completely empty. Kidnappers? But how could anybody have gotten their daughter out without waking them up? Rosalind herself, who distrusted and disliked all strangers, would have shrieked to wake the dead and probably bitten her abductor for good measure. Jean would not have been able to extract her without resistance, either. But she still had the crib, although they were going to replace it with a real bed soon. How could she have gotten over the railings?

Think, Calleigh. Don't react, investigate. She turned to start a systematic search of the house. Jean's door was still closed; she had come home late and rather tipsy last night after dinner with some of her new friends, and Horatio had put her to bed. Into the living room, and there was Rosalind, sitting on the floor in front of the sliding glass doors, watching birds out the window and playing with Hope. "Morning, Mama," she said softly but cheerfully, looking up.

Nothing is quite as annoying as having been worried and then discovering that the object of your worry was totally fine all along. Calleigh sighed. "Rosalind, how did you get out of bed?" Unlike her daughter, she didn't tone it down, and Rosalind instantly held one finger to her lips.

"Shhhhh. Dada's asleep. And Gramma."

Calleigh dropped the volume a bit. "How did you get out of bed? Did you climb? You could have fallen, you know."

Rosalind shook her head. "Buttons. I pushed the buttons."

"Both of them?" It took pushing both at once, and Rosalind's reach wasn't that long.

She nodded. "Pushed one. Put in a toy. Pushed the other."

Calleigh shook her head, impressed in spite of her annoyance. Of course, Rosalind had seen the rails operated a hundred times. She had activated one side, blocked the lever open, and then activated the other. And then, once out, she had put the rails back up, no doubt simply to leave things the way she found them. Once again, Calleigh realized how much Rosalind was like her father, in deduction, in neatness – and in consideration. "So you got yourself up because you didn't want to wake us up."

Rosalind nodded vigorously. "Or Gramma," she added, but it was an afterthought. The original concern had been for her parents.

Calleigh sighed. "Thank you, Angel, but please, just call us next time, okay? I thought you were missing."

Rosalind's eyes – Horatio's eyes – were suddenly full of remorse. "Sorry." She looked so upset about causing her mother worry that Calleigh picked her up and hugged her.

"It's okay, Angel. I appreciate you letting us sleep late. It has been a rough week." She gave her daughter a final squeeze, then put her down. "Okay, let's go to the bathroom."

"I already went."

"Really?" Calleigh was impressed all over again. "Did you cook yourself breakfast, too?"

The humor was lost on Rosalind, who answered seriously. "Don't touch the stove," she recited. Calleigh grinned. "Got the Cheerios."

"Well, good. Okay, let me get some clothes for us, and then I'll see what I can add to Cheerios." She turned back up the hall, and Rosalind behind her reminded, "Shhhh."

Calleigh was indeed quiet, but Horatio woke up within the next few minutes anyway, sensing that his family was up without him. They had breakfast together, and for a few minutes, it was as if the last week had never been, and Jean, still snoring in the guest room, was forgotten. "Do you still want to go on vacation, Horatio?" Calleigh asked. The original idea had been for quality time with Rosalind, before they had realized what was upsetting her.

He tilted his head, considering, then nodded. "I think it would do us all good. We have been so busy the last several months, really, and even time off was just a few days here and there in Miami. I'd like a total change of scenery for once. What do you think, Rosalind?"

His daughter nodded vigorously. "Let's go!" she said with her mouth full.

"Where should we go?" Calleigh reverted to practicality. "So far, all that's decided is someplace except Miami. Should we go on a cruise, like Peter and Becky?"

"They're booked up for months in advance," Horatio pointed out. He looked over at Rosalind, who was staring at the wall. "I see the wheels turning, Angel. What are you thinking about?"

She looked up at him. "Lots of people on the ship," she commented, remembering watching the one Peter and Becky were on pull out of the harbor.

"And you'd rather just be alone with us, at least this time?" Calleigh said. Rosalind nodded. "That sounds wonderful. No people." Calleigh liked the electric hum of Miami, but just once in a while, the thought of no other people anywhere near did have its appeal to her.

Horatio snapped his fingers. "Bill Weaver has a cabin out west that he and family friends use for vacations. Way out in the middle of nowhere, he said. In the edge of the mountains. I'll bet we could borrow it for a week."

"Probably could," Calleigh noted. "You did save his life, after all."

Horatio shook his head. "We saved his life. And Argo did most of it."

Calleigh dropped that one. Horatio would never realize the extent of his contribution on cases. "That sounds perfect, Horatio. Just the three of us, miles from civilization, miles from anybody. A nice, peaceful vacation."

Rosalind nodded. "Perfect!"

Horatio grinned at his family. "Well, that makes it unanimous. I'll call Bill tonight and ask. But first, today, we've got to find a house for Jean."

"Can I come?" Rosalind asked.

He stood and scooped her out of her chair. "Of course, Angel. It was your idea. I'd never pick one without you." He hugged her, she hugged him back, and Calleigh once again thought that even with her mother around, life was about as good as it could get.

(H/C)

Selecting a house was easier than they had expected. Somehow, even in the mayhem of the last few days, Horatio had looked up appropriate sizes, styles, and neighborhoods that would appeal to Jean on online realtor lists. The second house they saw seemed perfect – for Jean. Neither Horatio nor Calleigh would have wanted to live there, but, as Rosalind said, it "looks like Gramma." They made an appointment for the next afternoon to show Jean her house, letting her see it before actually signing the papers, but everyone agreed that she would be thrilled.

With that settled, they spent the next few hours just relaxing as a family, eating lunch, winding up at their favorite park where Rosalind had found pony rides on her birthday. Sure enough, the pony was there, and she happily went through the line four times straight. It was as Horatio lifted her down from the pony for the fourth time that she said, "Dada?"

"What is it, Angel?" He kissed her forehead, then set her down and knelt in front of her, keeping them on eye level for whatever she wanted to discuss. He could tell from the tone that it wasn't just a casual statement. No, Rosalind was thinking about something.

"What's Speed doing?"

Horatio glanced over his shoulder surreptitiously at the dark man with the motorcycle a few hundred feet away, next to a cluster of trees. "He's following us. He has been since we got to the park." He smiled to himself at his fellow CSI's reasoning. Their favorite park and the pony rides were a good bet on a Saturday if he wanted to find the Caine family.

Rosalind nodded. She had spotted him long since, but the pony took priority. "Why?"

He smiled at his daughter. "I think he wants to talk to you, but he's not quite sure how to do it, so he's just hanging around."

She looked at her father. "Let's go!"

"No, Angel, I really don't think going over to him is a good idea. Let's make him think he's deciding, okay? And don't tell him we noticed him following us."

Rosalind considered, then flashed her sudden smile. "His idea."

"Right. We didn't see him. Our secret, okay?"

She nodded. "Shhh."

"Shhh," Horatio agreed. He stood up. "Let's go over to those park benches, okay? Calleigh, you can get us ice cream cones, and we'll just sit there, not too far from him. And whatever he decides to do, he can do."

Speed dithered back and forth for a while, his debate plainly visible to all three of his targets of interest, even the 2 1/2-year-old. They stretched the ice cream cones as far as they could, and finally, Calleigh decided to give her coworker a boost. "Okay, we'd better get on home," she announced in a voice clearly audible a hundred feet away.

Rosalind started to protest, but Horatio, as he stood, whispered. "Shhhh." She relaxed, letting him take her hand and pull her off the park bench. They started to walk away, all radar focused to the rear.

A few seconds, and then a well-known voice. "Hey, H, Calleigh, Rosalind."

They turned around. "Fancy meeting you here," Calleigh commented.

"Um, yeah, I'm just out for a little Saturday morning ride." He didn't realize how transparent he was. Calleigh eyed the parked motorcycle in the crowded park for his "little Saturday morning ride" and said nothing.

"Nice work on wrapping up the details on the case," Horatio put in.

"Thanks. Um, could I talk to Rosalind for a minute?" He held out one hand like he wasn't sure she would take it. She did, letting go of her father's hand and stepping forward.

"Hi, Speed!"

"Hi, kid." He kept her hand and walked her a short distance away, unconsciously heading for his bike for whatever support it could give. "Listen, um . . . " He kicked himself mentally, wishing that people were half as easy to approach as evidence in a lab. He knew how to deal with that.

"What's wrong?" Rosalind eyes met his openly, with all of the trust there they usually had. This was still Speed, to her, and she knew him.

"Look, kid, I just wanted to say, um, I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"What I told you . . . what you heard me say . . . that your father had been hurt. That wasn't because of you. I didn't think about how you'd hear it. I just didn't think. But it's not true, Rosalind. It wasn't you."

She nodded. "Dada said that." Her tone held 2-year-old finality. Horatio had made a statement about the facts, so the whole issue was over, as far as Rosalind was concerned.

"I know. But I wanted to say it, too. And listen, kid, I don't . . . I don't always think, okay? And I usually don't say things right. So don't . . . don't listen to anything I say, all right? Don't ever let me bother you. Whatever I say, I probably said it wrong."

Rosalind gave him a smile. "Okay," she promised, and Speed marveled at the ease with which she could forgive.

He held out his hand. "Can we still be friends?"

She took it for the offered shake. "Friends."

He grinned at her, suddenly relaxed. "Maybe I could give you a little ride on my bike sometime. Would you like that?"

Rosalind shook her head vigorously, looking back toward the pony. "Get a horse!"

(H/C)

Thirty minutes later, the Caines were back home, heading up their own sidewalk. "I just hope she's here," Calleigh said. "I'm ready to get the last problem solved.

She was there. Jean was sitting in the recliner, looking at some wallet-sized pictures, but she quickly tucked them back in her purse and sprang up with all the alacrity she could manage when Horatio and Calleigh walked in. "Oh, I'm SO glad you're home. I knew you hadn't gone to work today, but I couldn't think where, and it's Saturday, and I know it's been a busy week for you, but I REALLY want to talk to you. I have the best news!"

She paused for breath, and Horatio stepped into the gap. "So do we."

"Me first," she insisted, like a child. She looked from one to the other of them. "I'm getting married!"

Calleigh and Horatio looked at each other, absolutely speechless. Jean bubbled on. "Oh, I know it's short notice, but he's SUCH a nice man, and he's been absolutely everywhere. Such an interesting life, and he wants to share it, and I was debating, because I hardly know him, but then you gave me the final push, Calleigh. You made me see what I needed to do." She stepped forward and gave her stunned daughter a hug. "Thank you so much. And thank you, Horatio, for introducing me to that wonderful club." She hugged Horatio in turn. Rosalind ducked back behind both of her parents, removing herself from the line of fire.

Calleigh found her voice, although it felt a bit like a gun that hadn't been oiled in ages. "Mother, when did I . . ."

"The other morning. You told me that if I wanted more grandchildren, I would just have to find them somewhere else." Jean darted back to her purse and removed the pictures, holding them out. "See? He has FIVE. Isn't that marvelous?"

Horatio was starting to think again, his mind slowly unfreezing. "Jean, tell us more information about this man, okay? We'd love to hear."

"Of course! I've been trying to talk to you about him for the last few days, but there was always something that came up so you couldn't." Horatio and Calleigh exchanged a guilty look. "Well, his name is Benjamin. Isn't that just wonderful? Such a strong name. He's a widower, and he's traveled all around the world. In fact, he was one of the speakers that first night that you took me to the banquet, Horatio."

"Which one?" Horatio ran through the index file of his memory.

"Gray hair, salt and pepper mustache. I just love the mustache." Horatio remembered the man now. His head tilted, considering him. He had seemed good natured but a bit of a speech-giver, someone who liked to hear himself talk. Horatio's eyes met Calleigh's, and he nodded slightly. The match had never occurred to him, but he could see it. Jean wanted someone to admire, to lose herself in and experience life through in escape of her childhood memories. Benjamin wanted someone to admire him. Jean was rattling on enthusiastically. "Anyway, he has five grandkids. He's so lonely, though, and he said he just needed another woman to fill the emptiness in his house." Nobody around to listen to him, Horatio thought. Suddenly, another detail sprang to mind.

"Wait a minute, Jean. Wasn't he introduced as our guest speaker from Atlanta?"

"Right. One of his kids lives down here. He was on vacation for two weeks, but he knew somebody in this club through an internet site, so they set up the presentation. He's in a travel club in Atlanta, of course. And we're going to travel. Really travel." Her eyes were shining. "He was so thrilled last night when I told him I would marry him. So I'm moving to Atlanta. And it's all because of you two. Isn't that just wonderful how things turn out?"

Calleigh stared at her mother, torn between relief and pity. Part of her wished that Jean would actually talk about Joanne, work through things, face her past, and come to terms with it instead of fleeing to another life of escapism. But the other part of her knew that her mother never would, never could face the past. She would simply remember it as she wished, consciously, anyway. She always had. And Calleigh could tell that Horatio remembered the man and approved of him as much as anybody could on such short meeting. She trusted Horatio, but she still felt sorry for Jean. Her mother would never know the happiness of reality, the happiness that Calleigh herself had found. It would always, for Jean, be the happiness of illusions. But that was better than driving herself insane with guilt over her dead sister, wasn't it?

Horatio reached out and took Calleigh's hand in his own. She looked up at his touch, and the blue eyes met hers, full of total compassion, regret, and understanding. "Yes, Jean," he said. "It's wonderful how things turn out."

Jean happily tucked her new pictures back into her purse. "So what did you two want to talk about?"

"Never mind," they said in unison.

(H/C)

The passengers spilled down the ramp from the ship to the shore, some of them walking a little wobbly as their sea legs again met land. Peter and Becky came down the gangway side by side, both looking happier and more relaxed than they ever had.

"I take it you had a good honeymoon," Horatio said, analyzing the evidence.

"Wonderful," Peter said. "It's incredible. I never knew life could be like this."

Calleigh smiled at him. "I know. But it's real. Not an illusion. We don't have to worry about some clock striking midnight." Her brother grinned at her, then suddenly turned serious.

"But what about Mother? We hated leaving you with that. Did you convince her not to move to Miami?"

"In a way," Horatio replied.

"So she's going back to Darnell, then?"

"No, she's moving to Atlanta," Calleigh said. "And she's getting married."

Peter stared at his sister. "Who would want to?" Becky elbowed him in the ribs.

"We met him night before last, actually," Horatio said. "Believe it or not, they're two of a kind."

Both Peter and Becky were staring now. "You found a perfect match for Jean in just one week?" Becky said. "Sounds like you've been busy."

"You have no idea," Calleigh replied.

They were still explaining everything 30 minutes later when the Hummer pulled into their driveway.

(H/C)

Next on CSI:Miami – Fearful Symmetry: Wildfire. "That sounds perfect, Horatio. Just the three of us, miles from civilization, miles from anybody. A nice, peaceful vacation."


	15. Chapter 15

Note to those asking, and thanks for asking.

Wildfire is still okay. I plan to finish Jingle Bells at some point, too, probably that one first, as it is much shorter. The stories are stored safely mentally. None past Wildfire in CSIM right now.

Life the last few years has been indescribable. Suffice it to say that an awful lot is going on, and all of it more important than fanfic.

I give you no time table at all. But someday, we'll get back to things.

Deb


End file.
